


Call of the wild

by Fox_Pause



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Derek's Loft, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Full Shift Werewolves, Heart Attacks, Helpful Deaton, Lost Stiles, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Markings, Multi, Mysterious Deaton, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Raven Mocker, Scenting, Scott is a Good Friend, Secrets, Sharing a Bed, Stiles Runs Away, Triggers, Virgin Stiles, Werefox Stiles, Werefoxes, Werewolf Hunters, Wolf Derek, forest, loads of comma's, loads of stiles as a fox, sterek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:33:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 20,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3282188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_Pause/pseuds/Fox_Pause
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Running through the dense forest had been Stiles' favorite thing to do ever since he was turned some time ago. He loves the way the wind  rushes through his fur and he loves the feeling of his paws scraping against the ground. He just didn't enjoy it so much when the hunters are hot on his tail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let him run

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive me If this story isn't 'all that', It's my first time writing a Sterek fic so please let me know what I can do to improve it. I promise there will be some serious fluff coming up!

Dashing through the forest, dirt clouding behind him, nails scratching against the well-worn paths, Stiles twists and turns his way through the unforgiving shrubbery, quickly making his way to somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe. 

Tilting his head towards the half-moon, he can’t help but think what a glorious night it would have been to spend frolicking through the forest, not a care in the world, but unfortunately Kate and her team decided to rain on his parade. Not that it’s the first time. 

The world passes by soundlessly, His paws barely touching the ground. The only noises he can hear seem far away now, the distant vibration of heavy cars wading their way through the forest. Trying desperately to capture Stiles. Again.

The Argents aren't the first family of hunters to try to capture fox-stiles, although he must admit that this is the closest they've actually gotten to capturing him. To make matters worse it’s not as if they’re just ‘hunters’ they’re frickn’ Hunters hunters, as in they kill werewolves for breakfast. Their interest in Stiles spiked when Allison accidentally mentioned to her dear auntie Kate that she had seen the most beautiful fox in the forest the other day, while out on a date with Scott. 

To be fair, it wasn't Stiles’ fault that Scott never told him where he was always disappearing to, with his on-again off-again girlfriend Allison. It just happened to be that Stiles may have forgotten to tell Scott about his teensy weensy little secret, you know, that he’s a Were-fox. Duh! When his buddy and his newly acquired werewolf senses caught a glimmer of Stiles and his extremely unique coloring hiding nearby in the bushes, Scott felt that he had to point out the ‘phenomenon of nature’ (Not Scott’s exact words, but Stiles has never been modest). It all went downhill from there.

Slowing his pace to a mere trot, Stiles turns left, onto the familiar trampled path which should lead him back to his favorite clearing. He’s sure it’s this one. Really.

Following the trail and pushing aside some branches to allow for his sleek and admittedly beautiful body to refrain from gaining any more scratches, Stiles sets in motion his dubious plan to finally loose these persistent hunters. His new plan is genius, even If he does say so himself, he even has steps to follow: 

1 hide/confuse scent, whichever is most convenient at the time.  
2: Find somewhere that isn't in forest to hide out for the night.  
3: Find home. 

Moving over to the opposite side of the clearing he props a fallen tree branch up against one of the newer evergreens in a makeshift ramp, making sure the nearest branch isn't too far off the ground, but high enough to be out of reach for the hunting dogs.

After stepping back to admire his beautiful handiwork he runs in a tight circle, beginning in the center of the clearing slowly extending to the outer perimeter, making sure to scent the entire thing, eventually leaving behind a solid circle of his scent. Using his back legs to support is weight, he rubs his face and muzzle thoroughly against each tree. His plan is to throw the dogs off his scent, no matter how delicious he might be he doesn't want to be their next meal, no thank you mister. 

Seemingly satisfied with his scenting he jumps up his previously prepared ramp, knocking down the branch with a solid thump. He takes one last look at his scent maze. He would love to stay around and watch the dogs get endlessly confused, picturing them running in ceaseless circles, but of course, he can’t stay long. Hearing a small twig snapping in the distance serves as his cue to leave, bounding from tree branch to tree branch avoiding touching the ground at any point, slowly disappearing silently into the darkness of the night.


	2. lost in his own forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the shorter chapters, I'll have to try to make the next one a tad longer! Thanks people :)

Stiles isn’t supposed to spend this much time out in the forest. Ever.

The reasons have been drilled into him since he ended up at Deaton’s clinic one night after being bitten by a werewolf up in New York (While visiting Lydia. Yeah, Stiles didn’t think there would be any up there either) and having a panic attack about the wound fading suddenly. 

According to Deaton, in extreme cases the animal you change into reflects your personality, but in Stiles case the bite also mirrors his natural magic ability, hence the ‘magical fox’ nickname. There are strict rules he must follow, such as: don’t run through town, don’t show anyone untrustworthy your fox form, don’t stay fox for too long, don’t go to strange forests, don’t tell your family, don’t go out on full moons, avoid the Hale’s territory, don’t flash your fur, don’t pass go. Basically, as always, don’t do anything fun and keep the truth hidden from your father.

Stiles managed to shake the Argents off his trail, at least for now and decides to try to find somewhere safe to bunker down for the night.

Navigating through the woods at night has always been refreshing. The cool breeze always finds a way to weave its way through his coat to be base of his fur, picking small stray hairs, tangling themselves with the wind, the pads of his paws cooling with each touch to the ground, seemingly taking the edge off his adrenaline rush from earlier. Pushing his nose through the dense shrubs of someone’s fertile backyard he strains his ears, listening for a sign of life hidden behind the wickedly high walls of the impressive house. Finding only steady heartbeats and the smell of chemical cleaners and disinfectants, laced with lavender, Stiles settles down for the night under the back porch, curling his body into an almost perfect circle. Thinking in Stiles fox form comes as easily as talking does in his human form, it’s the main reason he isn't dead yet. 

The thoughts in Stiles mind form individually, but there are many, making it almost impossible to focus on just one. Just like mist, Stiles thinks to himself. The individual droplets becoming so hard to pick out that all of a sudden it’s this wall of thoughts pressing against his skull. Shaking off the unwanted thoughts Stiles readjusts himself, laying quietly in the dirt. Drifting off to sleep, Stiles lets his mind drift to happy thoughts. Dad, Scott, home. 

Vibrations coming from above Stiles shift him from the brim of sleep to a more alert state. Blinking rapidly to try to remove the haze that shadows his eyes, he manages to focus on what he’s feeling, what he’s seeing. There are shadows above the porch. Sniffing at the air and perking his ears, his senses tell him that there are more than two people on the porch. 

The familiar scent of chemical cleaners and disinfectants, laced with lavender belongs to the two elderly people, slightly to the left of him. A charming young girl with the scent of bubble-gum, fairy floss and soap is talking rapidly to the older couple. Stiles thinks to himself that these people must be family, but mustn’t visit often if they don’t share scents. The two waddle inside, speaking to what seems to be the girl’s parents. Stiles knows he shouldn't be listening in, but with no other sounds to focus on it’s almost impossible not to. They speak briefly about the young girl, Sophie’s her name. Other than the young girls name, Stiles can’t pick up anything else of interest and quickly disengages from the conversation, because really, Stiles needs to go home, like yesterday. 

Scanning his surroundings and finding no obstacles (excusing the young girl) he makes a break for where he made his entrance, leaping over the shrubs and having landed safely on the other side, he breaks into a light trot and tries to find the path home. 

Stiles must be getting good with his fox form, the girl didn't seem to have seen him. Finding the path to take him home is more of a problem that he thought it would be. With his nose to the ground, all he can find is the fading scent of the Argents hunting dogs, thankfully long gone.  
Using the barrier of homes like a compass Stiles eventually finds somewhere completely safe to shift. Now to tackle problem no.2. Clothing. Using the houses yet again he finds a clothesline with suitable young men’s clothes, whispering apologies he returns to his safe spot to shift.


	3. The prodigal son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles finds his way home.

Shifting has never been uncomfortable for Stiles, it feels like a big stretch after a long day. However after a long time spent in either form it feels more like an itch he just can’t scratch. Annoying really, although he suspects he has his spark to thank for that.

Focusing on willing the change to happen, he can feel his muscles growing, stretching, progressing to the point where they swallow up his fur and sprout fingers, a human head, everything. There’s an odd moment in-between human and fox where everything is black and fading, when his eyes are changing shape, on the brink of fox and human, neither one stronger than the other. The Moment is oddly peaceful, like the calm before a storm.

He’s tried to see himself shift before. The mirror dangling precariously between his bed and the desk chair. But really, all he could see was faint tendrils of smoke ensnaring, teasing at Stiles’ human frame, until they melted away to reveal a large fox gazing curiously at the mirror. Whenever he asked about what he looked like as a fox, Deaton had told him he has the most handsome coat, his build not reflecting on any existing species of fox, but instead on his soul and his magic. If you squint ever so slightly, his shape resembles a red fox. Stiles can’t see colors in his fox form so he has no idea what his fox form’s colors were. Instead he can pick up on the tiniest movement’s miles away. It’s Maddening. 

In his full human form His senses are dulled notably, but still rank high above that of an average human’s. Putting on the borrowed clothes quickly, Stiles follows the trails out of the forest and into town.  
While trudging his way through town, he receives many strange looks from the town folk about this clothes and lack of hygiene. ‘Sue me, I've only been trapped in the forest as a fox, hiding from crazy bitches for the past 1½ days, I’m sorry if my grooming isn't up to your standards.‘ But of course he can’t say that, no matter how much he wants to. And believe me, he really want to. But he’s he sheriff’s son, he has a reputation to uphold. He might as well play the part every now and then. 

Recognizing the streets he finds it easy to locate his home among the other houses, which in comparison lack personality. Trudging up the front steps he opens the door, pausing, straining his ears to find his dad’s pulse and finding one other with it, murmured voices echoing from the lounge room. He comes to a standstill at the opening of the lounge room, surprised to find Scott sitting across from his father, calming him. 

Both eyes snap to Stiles’ face, a look of surprise flashing across their features. He doesn't have time to register the movement when suddenly his dad standing in front of him, arms wrapped tightly around his son whispering softly into his ears about how happy he is to have him back, and if he needs to talk, he’s always there for him, anytime. 

“Of course dad. I know. I just forgot to call, that’s all. “ 

Stepping back and giving Stiles an ‘I’ll ask again later’ look the two exchanged manly shoulder slaps and the Sheriff announced that he is going to bed after waiting up all night for Stiles to come home.   
Scott, however is not so easy to fool.

“Dude, what the hell!” Scott doesn't shout often, so Stiles makes sure to put on his ‘I’m so, so sorry face’.

“You were gone for like a whole day, and no one knew where you were. I even searched to forest for you! Everyone was out looking for you, hey, wait... What is that smell?”  
Scott scrunches up his nose and steps closer to Stiles, who automatically steps backwards. "Dude, why do you smell like the forest?” Trying to focus on keeping his heartbeat steady he slowly answers.

“I don’t know man, you tell me. You’re the one with the creepy heightened senses” Scott shakes his head furiously at Stiles.  
The guilt twists in his gut. Maybe he should tell him the truth…

“No way man, I searched that forest for a long as I could. I honestly thought that you ran away! You almost gave your dad a heart attack!“

“I know, I’m sorry… I, I’ll tell you everything in the morning, I promise, just let me get some sleep. Please?” Goddammit. He could feel his own heart stutter at the obvious lie. Scott’s mouth moved as if he were trying to say words he hadn't yet learned to pronounce. Turning to leave, Scott threw Stiles an injured look.

“Fine. If that’s how you want to play it, then I guess this is goodnight Stiles” 

Scott made sure that everyone in the entire neighborhood knew that he was leaving the Stilinski residence, slamming the door as hard as he could, amazingly without taking the door off its hinges.   
Stiles headed soundlessly upstairs, but of course he wouldn't sleep. His werewolf friend had just heard him lie, he’d be crazy if he thought he was going to make it through this one alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god! I'm bloody awful at dialog, so please, please give me some pointers. 
> 
> thanks everyone for reading.


	4. That itch

Tossing and turning in his bed Stiles decides upon a new cover story. Hopefully one that’ll work as well as his plan to throw the hunters off his trail did. 

Flicking through the stories that spring to mind, he finally decided upon one that doesn't sound too outlandish and is totally believable too. This would all be so much easier if he could just run away to the forest and never be seen again. No homework, no worrying about where the future will take him, no werewolf drama, none of the ‘you’re just a delicate human crap’, just him and Mother Nature. If only it were that easy. 

Turns out he didn't sleep at all last night. Between thinking about a new cover story and possible escape from society (and the pack) his body and mind were both so exhausted, he was far beyond the realm of sleep. 

School started before he arrived, making him late yet again. He of course receives odd looks from Erica and Boyd, before getting interrogated by Scott during lunchtime.  
“So?”

“So What?”

“Where the hell were you man? The entire pack was worried. Even Derek”

“Wh- really?” Scott gives him a look like he’s the crazy one, his expression slowly shifting to a glare.

“Ok .Ok, Dude, just ease off that alpha glare, will you? You’re starting to look a lot like the sour wolf with that scowl. I’ll tell you dude. Just please don’t tell the rest of them. Ok?” 

“Fine” He’s practiced saying this over and over, forcing himself to believe it too. It’s the only way he knows of to actually lie to a werewolf. A good lie is mostly the truth, right?

“I went into the forest while dad was at work to look for some new flowers, you know, the ones mum loved.” Looking for flowers for mum, tick. Stiles tries to focus on the truth hidden within the lies. “I may have gotten a little lost and ended up near one of the retired deputies’ houses. This run down little cabin on the other side of the forest. I think he was trying to ‘live off the land’ or something like that. Of course he recognized me, I mean who wouldn't?” Scott scoffed “He let me stay the night, but I left in the morning to get back home, which took me the rest of the day. That forest is massive man.”

“If you were going into the forest alone, why didn't you take your phone?”

Ah. Shit, here comes the tricky part.

“I wanted it to be a complete surprise, come on man, I’m back now. Let’s not dwell in the past.” Scott, bless him seemed to believe the shit Stiles was spinning because once Stiles finished his rambling he gave him a short nod, and headed to his last classes.

Two weeks later Stiles was feeling that itch again. The one where he needs to shift, like now. Scott however, has been watching him like a Hawk since the little ‘incident’ a few weeks ago and he’s pretty sure he can see the little werewolf’s Silhouette drifting between the trees in his backyard. 

Breathing deeply he devises a plan to trick the werewolf into thinking he’s asleep, no matter how much Scott wants to protect him, this is too far up Stiles creep’o meter for it to be healthy. Concentrating on breathing deeply, evening out his heartbeat, slowing his pulse. Gradually his body follows the lead and slows, mimicking the relaxed actions of someone in a deep state of sleep. Listening out for Scott’s heartbeat and hearing it fade slowly into the forest accompanied by his heavy footsteps, Stiles feels like he can breathe easy once more. 

He knows Scott, or another member of the pack will be along soon to keep guard. Picking up his trusty phone, holding its speaker up to his chest just over his heart, he records 3 minutes worth of steady heartbeats and even breathing. Arranging his pillows to take the form of his sleeping body under the covers he settles his phone between the blankets and makes his way through the window, making sure to shut it quietly so he doesn't alarm any nearby werewolves. 

Waiting until the wind shifts so his scent doesn't carry directly back to the patrolling werewolves, Stiles flees the house. After storing his clothes in the hollow of a tree, Stiles shifts effortlessly. The familiar relief of shifting washes over Stiles, like the first stretch after a wonderful nights rest. 

He reckons he has roughly an hour before the werewolves come to see who the daring fox is to stay around with the scent of werewolves lingering in the air. So naturally, not wasting a moment Stiles lunges deeper and deeper into the forest. The steadily increasing rhythm of his heartbeat thudding away in his ears, the slight tap of paws pushing off the ground. His agile and calculated movements when he hunts, always stunning his pray, freezing them in place before quickly ending their lives. 

These are the things that make the forest by far, his favorite place in the whole wide world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I prefer to write as fox-Stiles? To be honest it's just so much more fun, there just aren't enough fox stiles works :'(
> 
> Oh well. I'll add a new chapter tomorrow, thanks to everyone for reading It means heaps!!


	5. The colour of his coat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is feeling that itch again, but maybe now isn't the best time to shift. Especially with the pack watching his house after his little stunt last week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter there is a point of view change. I change the POV from Stiles to Derek and it basically re-covers the past few minutes so that we can get a description of Stiles as a fox! I hope you enjoy it, please leave feedback. This is my first story so I'd love to know how I'm doing! comments are always welcomed. :)

Frolicking through the woods at night as a fox, while as stress-releasing as it might be, isn’t entirely safe. 

Especially for Stiles, who has a bit of a habit of getting himself into trouble. The forest looms above him, the dark silhouettes of trees towering towards the sky. The grass untamed and trampled along the well-worn paths. Stiles knows this section of the forest, walking through it is like second nature to him.

While chasing down a startled mouse who dared to cross his path, he becomes distracted by the distant beating of paws some 300 feet away. Dodging into a nearby abandoned burrow on the edge of a wide clearing, Stiles sticks his nose out just a tiny bit, so he can hopefully smell this.. Whoever it is. Not that he’s avoiding the heavy smell of dust inside the burrow, no, not in the slightest. 

Feeling rather safe within the tiny burrow and knowing full well that even if the predator wanted to get in, there is no way in hell they’re getting through that entrance he turns his attention back to the incoming danger. Willing his senses to focus, he concentrations on the heavy paws drumming up a regular beat on the ground, vibrations scattering through the earth as the beast gallops towards the largest tree. Judging by the sounds of this thing it’s huge, easily three times his size. Stiles isn't massive, but he is easily far larger than the average fox. 

Taking this as his opportunity to get to know what type of creature has just come barreling through the forest, Stiles carefully sniffs the air. Pine needles, charcoal, dust and wolf all swarm his awareness, his mind engulfed by the whirling aroma that sweetly caresses his senses. The wolf, sensing Stiles’ presence angles his head towards the base of the tree, inhaling deeply and stiffens having caught a familiar scent.  
As if suddenly remembering himself, Stiles retreats to the very back of the burrow, trying to remain as invisible as possible to the predator. Stiles can usually defend himself pretty well against wild predators, but there’s just something about this wolf’s scent that’s got Stiles very wary of the predator.

The wolf cautiously approaches the burrow, stuffs his muzzle through the narrow opening and scents the air inside Stiles’ burrow for a solid three seconds before Stiles snaps at the wolfs muzzle, sick of having the wolves muzzle all up in his business. Startled by the sudden show of aggression the wolf takes two steps back, using his paws to wipe at the small wound. Darting out of the burrow, Stiles gets a good look at the intruder, as does the wolf. 

It’s somewhere between the size of a Shetland pony and a regular horse, and god damn its fur is dark. Jet black fur tightly covers the entire wolf, making it almost invisible against the night shadows of the forest. The wolf’s torso is brimming with large muscles, dwindling in size to reveal a set of sleek back legs, designed specifically for tight turns at high speeds. Fuck. There are only a few wolves with fur that dark, a build that strong, a scent so fulfilling. Derek’s going to kill him when he finds out.

Scurrying away into the increasingly dense forest, Stiles fight or flight instincts finally kick into gear, hearing Derek’s imposing form moving through the forest at speeds he never thought possible for something of that size.  
____________________________POV change: Stiles - Derek______________________________  
Earlier that evening.

The Stilinski house has always been along Derek’s usual patrol route, but for the past week the pack has been taking turns watching the house after incident last week. Stiles had gone missing after a short walk into the preserve, the only scent the pack could find lead to a dead end in a nearby clearing, far from any of the hiking routes. The entire pack had split into groups of two in an effort to cover as much of the preserve in the shortest amount of time possible. He couldn't deny the ache, the panic that Stiles had gone missing, his trail leading to a dead end. His need to find Stiles only increased when their search for Stiles had been cut short by Kate’s team sweeping the area. Nobody was willing to stay long enough to see what they were searching for. 

It’s his turn to be watching Stiles, but somehow he’s ended up lost in the forest again. Guess who’s going to have to rescue him. 

Shifting into his full form, Derek chuckles to himself, thinking about how terrified Stiles will be when he sees him like this, an enormous monster looming over him. After stretching briefly he powers his way through the forest, following Stiles scent as it slowly changes from very human to… To something else entirely, then disappearing completely, as if forgotten from his senses. Mimicking the way Stile’s scent stopped suddenly during the incident. What the hell has Stiles gotten himself into now? Increasing his pace to a full sprint Derek hurls himself into the nearest clearing desperately scenting the air for Stiles. 

Coming to a stop under a nearby tree, turning his head just so, he is able to catch a familiar scent. The scent of honey, burning camp food and tree sap fill his nose reminding him of nature, reminding him of Stiles. And that’s when he hears it. 

An extremely faint *sniff* from a nearby burrow.

Warily inspecting the suspicious burrow, Derek notices the occupant of said burrow quickly withdraw themselves. Curious little critter. Pressing his muzzle into the burrow and trying to hold the scent of the animal, he flinches back at the sudden pain. The little fucker bit his nose! A flash of movement, almost too quick to track darts out of the burrow and pauses, observing Derek. 

Oh my. 

The fox, silently regarding Derek is stunningly beautiful, the air floating around it buzzing with the distant promise of magic and danger. The large fox in no way could ever be considered ‘normal’, not with its exaggerated brown eyes, not to mention the vast array of blues neatly exposed to the moonlight that become lighter at its feet, echoing the hues from the clear night sky above, contrasting with a series of bizarre runes, or symbols that illuminate under the gleam of the moon. The Symbols run from the back of its neck to the base of its tale, the most intricate resting on its head. 

For a brief moment the two’s gazes are locked, neither want to be the first to break contact, the fox bristles remembering himself before turning to the forest, running like it’s legs are on fire. Derek wanting to know more, wanting to know it’s really Stiles and not just some trick of his senses, thunders into the forest, fueled with new found energy.


	6. The First Haze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles pushes his body to the limit, desperate to get away form Derek.  
> Instead he finds himself lost inside a dangerous haze, which has it's fair share of problems. 
> 
> enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter was so late! To compensate for my tardiness I made it a tad longer, making it the longest chapter yet!
> 
> please enjoy, and be sure to let me know what you think!

\-------------------------------------------------------POV Change: Derek-Stiles----------------------------------------------------------  
Holy shit, is he in for it now.

Pushing his limbs to their limits, willing them to give him just a touch more speed Stiles weaves his way through the forest in hopes of losing Derek. His mind is set to an automatic destination in its flight or fight frenzy, driven by the large predator hot on his heels. The fox slowly taking over his mind and body.

The forest becomes a blur, dark shapes throwing themselves past him, the horizon disappearing and re-appearing as his body rises and falls into the rhythm of his run. He’s lost track of time. All he knows is that the wolf is still chasing him, and he’s still caving into his natural desire to get the hell out of there as the predator heaves himself through the forest.

More time passes. He’s so tired. His head hurts.

A haze is thrown into the air, but his feet won’t stop and it’s quickly forgotten. The forest begins to rise and fall around him like the waves of the ocean rolling over him, consuming him, becoming more violent and discolored each time, turning from night hues to oranges and yellows, the sharp pain of a headache strengthening with every toss of the waves. Huh. It’s never done that before. He doesn't have a choice to stop, he can’t stop and he must keep going. He keeps forgetting why he’s even running in the first place.

His mind dips in and out of awareness, switching from his rational human mind, to his erratic survival driven fox mind. He remembers why he was running. He has to calm down if he ever wants to lose the Derek. Gain total control of the fox, just like Deaton taught him to.

“Think about the now, focus on the problem. You can’t just let the fox take over, you have to control it” Deaton’s words repeat themselves in his head like a mantra, keeping stiles concentration for just long enough for him to take control, and stay in control. The pain of his headache picks up as he wrestles for control, the pain spiking into head like hot pins.

‘Think about the now’. He can do that. He twists his ears like radars to pick up on any signs of movement behind him. But to his surprise, he can only hear his own heartbeat, thrumming through his body. Coming to a stop, his instincts screaming at him that stopping is the last thing he should be doing right now.  
He tries slowing his heart, straining his ears, listening intently for Derek who should really be tackling him to the ground, snarling in his face.

He can’t hear anything, not a damn thing, he can’t even hear his own heartbeat any more. It’s like everything’s vanished off the face off the earth. It’s eerily quiet, the silence echoing around him. He can’t hear anything at all. No birds, no rodents, no wind tussling the leaves. He can’t even hear his own heartbeat, he certainly can’t hear Derek. He turns on the spot. This is beyond weird.

There is no forest surrounding him anymore, just walls of yellow and orange mist pulsing around him. Looking down he sees that the ground is gone too, he just sees his paws floating in an orange mist.  
Something is very wrong here. He needs to get out now. He closes his eyes and focuses on his feet, working out the math to try to figure out how many steps he needs to take to turn back. His educated guess is 4. Moving his feet into place is much harder that the thought. They’re a lot heavier than he remembers, but he manages anyway. He gradually opens his eyes, but is met with the same misty walls as before. Where the hell is he? Stiles isn’t sure what the silence can bring, but it’s making him edgy. He feels like he’s in more danger here then when he was being chased by an alpha werewolf, surely that can’t be right. The sudden throbbing of his headache against the walls of his skull brings his mind back to the problem at hand.

Warily, he slowly heads for home, legs shaking from exhaustion as he stumbles through the mist. He’s walking for what seems like hours, scared to run, as the slightest change in direction could change is course. The headache gets worse with every step forward, begging him to return. At its climax he has to stop, the pain becoming unbearable, this constant ringing in his ears. The squeezes his eyes against the pain, but then it just stops. Everything stops.

The world he knows appears, and he finds himself milling around the undergrowth. The woods gradually thicken, the sounds slowly edging their way back into his awareness. He can hear an owl swooping overhead, gathering a mouse in its talons. He can hear the woodland creatures sleeping peacefully in their homes, a large hunter working its way through the woods flanked by two others. The colors eventually fade back to their darkened shades, his headache ebbing away sluggishly.

Thinking clearly now, he has the growing feeling that something isn't right. He checks through the noises he heard before. An Owl hunting is nothing out of the ordinary. The woodland creatures are sleeping as they should. A large hu- shit.

His heart rate rises, adrenaline kicks in as he realizes who the hunters are. It has to be Derek. Presumably Scott and Isaac are flanking him In their search for him. God damn, how long has he been running for? He kind of blacked out there for a while. Never mind the horrible orangey-yellowy haze.

He wants to run. He wants to go. But he can’t. His legs are frozen to the ground, his heart pounding so hard it threatens to destroy his rib cage. Like a deer in the headlights. Fear closes in, like a cold blanket wrapping itself around him, sending cold chills down his spine, making his fur stand on end.

They’re getting closer. He can only presume that by now they've caught his scent. He needs to move. Now.

His legs fail him, barely able to withstand his own weight. He’s more tired than he’s ever felt before, his eyes heavy with the promise of sleep. He can hear their footfalls hurtling through the forest, desperate to reach him. But he still. Can’t move. Think Stiles, think. What can you do right now that isn't thinking? It hits him. Duh. He’s magic. Only he’s never actually used it before.

Trying to recall the most recent spells Deaton taught him, He throws his memory back to the day after the incident. He had begged Deaton to tell him how to cast some useful spells so he could defend himself against anyone who threatened to kill him (He really doesn't want to repeat what happened with Kate). He doesn't want to hurt the werewolves, so that cuts out some of the more powerful spells. No, it must be something that will confuse them or hide him. His safest bet would be to cast a defensive spell and switch back. Maybe he would be able to pull off an altered cloaking spell. Nothing major. Just enough to hide his erratic heartbeat and whatever scent’s he’s throwing off.

He focuses, concentrating on what he wanted to do, picturing his heart beating evenly. The magic pulsed around him, launching from the outside world, sifting its way through his fur, shooting a warm fuzzy feeling through his muscles that sank into his bones, seeping into his heart. A slow, steady heartbeat reached his ears.

Just in time, too.

Three large Wolves come crashing through the clearing, led by the darkest wolf. Derek. The other two were only slightly smaller, but still towered over Stiles.  
Derek stops and stares at Stiles, eyes penetrating into his skull as if gouging answers from his mind. Stiles quickly averts his gaze as a clear sign of submission to the larger wolf. Derek’s eyes soften, the Alpha pleased with Stiles’ submission, and quickly checks him over, eyes stopping on his chest, giving Stiles a quizzical look.

Good. The spell must be working.

The wolf with its head tilted towards Stiles must be Scott. His fur is only a shade lighter than Derek’s, but his build is naturally stronger. Thick muscles track over his body, usually covered by smooth, thick fur, but now he’s covered in dirt and grime from racing through the forest. His eyes are filled with anger, avoiding making any contact with Stiles. Only once he allowed them to float over Stiles, checking for any serious wounds before turning them back to glare at the ground. Stiles winces at Scott’s reaction, it’s his fault. He should have told Scott sooner, the two were practically brothers. Scott wouldn't have kept this from him. They were supposed to share everything.

The second wolf must be Isaac, judging from the sad eyes that swiftly scan over his surroundings. It’s a nervous tick Stiles noticed since Isaac became a member of the pack. The boy had always been wary of any potential danger, but it’s not like he can be blamed though, the kid’s been through hell. His fur is wiry and pokes out in every which way and is by far the lightest of the three, the moonlight bouncing off the stray strands, giving his coat an uneven sheen.

Scott and Isaac separate, slowly skirting around Stiles. One on his left, the second on the right. Warily they move around him, suggesting that they’re merely presences in his peripheral vision, coming to a stop when they've fully surrounded him, supposedly stopping him from making an escape. Let’s not tell them he’s frozen from both exhaustion and fear of Derek, it might hurt their werewolf ego.

Derek is the first to make a move towards him. He moves slowly, head lowered so he doesn't frighten Stiles, trying to make himself appear smaller, less intimidating. It’s working. He still feels unsure, but he’s not as frightened as he was before. Soon Derek is right in front of him, his warm breath brushing over his muzzle.

Derek moves forward, butting his head with Stiles. The warm pressure leaks warmth through his skull, working its way through his body, unsticking his feet. A warm tongue strokes his muzzle, sending the message of ‘you’re safe now’ through his mind. He feels odd. It feels awkward. It’s like hugging someone doesn't know how to hug or being the third wheel on a super romantic date. Stiles slowly responds, letting Derek know he understands.  
Derek back’s off, sending short nods to the other two, who upon receiving the ‘all clear’ make their way over to Stiles, repeating Derek’s gesture.

The three circle around him, brushing themselves against him, scenting him. It feels so bizarre, and if he’s honest, he doesn't like it. It feels like they’re recruiting him for a cult. But they stop and step back after a short time, as if he was burning them. He whines from the sudden loss of contact, no, from the sudden loss of heat. He didn't realize he was so cold. He looks to Derek for guidance, but is met with a confused look.

Derek, Scott and Isaac shift back, lifting their arms to their faces as if to shield themselves from him. Surely he doesn't smell that bad. He too shifts back a moment later, frustrated with the wolves for their odd behavior, making sure to cover himself up the best he can.

Isaac stares at Stiles with a mixed look of hurt and wonder. Scott’s look of betrayal physically hurts Stiles, as does Derek’s wide eyed stare, looking at Stiles as if he’s grown a second head.

“What is your problem?! You found me! You should be happy!” His voice is unsteady, but he can’t bring himself to care. He doesn't understand. He looks from each of the boys, eyes finally resting on Derek’s searching for an answer. Any answer. Only Silence greets him. They stand there, as still as statues, arms still raised to defend themselves against a threat he can’t identify. He can’t take the silence anymore, fuck he needs some answers. “Well?”

Derek is the one to answer, his voice harsh. “We can’t scent you, Stiles. Something’s stopping us. We can’t make you a member of the pack”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter may be a bit delayed, I have a Business sac coming up next week and I do want to get a decent ATAR, so sorry about that guys!  
> I hope you're enjoying the story so far, because I'm really enjoying writing it. Talk about stress relief. 
> 
> Talk to me on Tumblr if you have any questions or if you just want to talk, but be warned, I can ramble.  
> Here it is-- http://fox-pause.tumblr.com/


	7. Running with the big boys

“What do you mean ‘you can’t scent me’? Isn't that what werewolves do?” Panic nipping at his voice, causing him to sound like a squealing fan girl. Shit, is something really wrong with him?

“It’s not working Stiles! The scents’ just slide off you! It doesn't make any sense!” Scott screams back, hurt evident in his tone. As if it was Stiles’ fault.

He flings the wolves a confused look, flailing his free arm around as if to somehow explain how the fuck this could happen. They've been supernatural creatures way longer than he has, he shouldn't be the one pulling answers out of his ass. They can’t seriously think it’s his fault, can they?

Derek slowly approaches him side-on, slowly lifting his hand forward as if to stroke Stiles, or kill him. Who knows? He really isn't liking his chances right now. Derek takes one step at a time, poised to attack if need be. He stops in front of Stiles, his brow pulled down in the most ridiculous scowl he’s ever seen, hand dangling in the air awkwardly directly in front of Stiles’ chest. As if that’s going to somehow help him  _hear_ his heartbeat, A little common sense goes a long way, Derek.

“This seriously isn't you doing this?” The skepticism in his tone speaks for itself. Clearly Derek doesn't believe him. Can’t he just listen to his heartbeat to see if he’s lying? Oh. Right. The spell. He needs to release the cloaking spell if he’s going to convince the wolves this clearly isn't his fault. He originally put it there in hopes of fleeing silently into the night, but instead his body betrayed him, freezing him to the ground, waiting for Derek’s approval. Stupid damn instincts. Here’s hoping dismissing the spell doesn't knock him out again like it did when he practiced with Deaton.

Holding out his hand in a clear ‘Give me a minute’ gesture, He closes his eyes and tries to focus on the magic he pulled into his body, into his heart. He locates the spell, a light presence in his chest. Seeing the spell wrapped contently around his heart, golden threads encasing his hammering core, shielding the outside world from its erratic beating, He can’t help feeling kind of sad, ending something so beautiful. Stiles carefully seizes at the threads with his mind, cutting the spell’s connection. The unused excess magic snaps, turning a nasty shade of grey when the spell ends, sending a high pitched buzzing to his ears, his head spinning with the impact of the snap.

Shaking his head to clear his mind, he opens his eyes and is met by three very wide eyed werewolves.

Roughly a minute passes, maybe more, he can’t be too sure. But they’re still. Fucking. Staring. He’s pretty sure they haven’t even inhaled yet. He could have sworn werewolves needed to breathe. But then again, maybe he’d be wrong there too.

“Come on guys, you’re kind of scaring me.”

Derek, of course is the first to respond, his words stumbling from his mouth, tumbling into each other. “How-when-what-the fuck was that?” Blinking his eyes furiously as if to clear his mind of something he doesn't want to see. Right. The magic. He thought there was seriously something wrong there for a second.

Taking a deep breath and turning his head to the ground, he tries his best to explain. Of course, as usual, his mind is as erratic as his heartbeat. “I’m Magic guys. Well, actually I’m not magic.” Nice going Stiles, confuse them some more. Let’s see how far we can take it before their heads explode. “Wait. Let me start again. It’s more like there’s magic everywhere, but more in certain spots, and I can kind-of control it, but not really. I tried to cast two spells, but I guess only one worked, which I just broke. Which explains why you should be able to hear my heartbeat now. My true heartbeat. Yeah. So, there’s that bombshell.” He looks up, searching their eyes for some sort of comprehension that they understood, or at least, heard him.

He scans the werewolves various reactions. Scott’s just as dumbfounded as Derek. Staring at him with saucepans for eyes. Isaac seems to have calmed down a bit though, and has moved on from staring to narrowing his eyes and glaring. It’s not much, but he’ll take it.

“Guys?”

Derek’s eyes snap shut. His hand moving to massage his temples. “Give us a minute Stiles. That’s a lot to take in”

Scott tilts his head to the side, seemingly over the initial surprise. He looks to Derek, then back to Stiles, eyes flickering between the two. “So, you’re magic now?”

“Well, yeah I guess so. That’s actually the first time I've done that spell without passing out” Derek’s eyes float over Stiles body, Scrutinizing the lanky teen.

“Huh”

“Yeah. Go me”

The awkward silence rages on, until Scott finally steps closer to Stiles, standing next to Derek. Scott’s so obliviously hesitant to touch him, but Stiles needs to know they’re ok. He can’t have Scott being mad at him. They’re brothers. He goes for an awkward man-hug, involving heavy back slapping and no words. Scott lets him, slowly reciprocating the action. Pulling back to look at his friend, he looks directly into Scott’s eyes, and for some reason he doesn't feel scared of the wolf anymore.

 “Scott, are we good?”

It takes him a minute to answer, as if weighing up the pros and cons. “Yeah Stiles, we’re good” He can’t help the goofy grin edging its way across his face, looking at Scott, It doesn't seem like he can stop it either. Scott quickly gains control of his face back, schooling his face back into a blank expression. “You have some explaining to do though”

“Yeah, I know” He guiltily looks up to Scott, who nods to Derek.

Derek shifts into his full wolf form, bones crunching and skin stretching. He turns, heading out of the clearing. Stiles follows Derek out automatically, shifting fluently, not questioning his body’s actions. It feels too natural to be wrong. Scott comes up next to him on his left, Isaac following suit on the right. The Pack forms a simple ‘^’ formation, which, as it turns out, is very effective in shielding Stiles. Werewolves are so odd. Why protect the fox?

They pick up speed, flowing silently though the forest. Together they’re fast, but he can go so much faster by himself.  Maybe they’re slowing down for him? No way! He’s a speed demon.  Stiles increases his speed, not even getting close to half his top speed, almost colliding into Derek’s rump. Scott and Isaac fling him challenging looks, increasing their pace to match his. Derek’s caught on now too, throwing himself into a quick sprint.

If it’s a race they want, it’s a race they’ll get. The others don’t stand a chance.

He uses his magic to propel his legs forward, increasing his speed with every step. He never said he wouldn't cheat. He needs to overtake them all if he wants to avoid a collision, he’s getting worryingly close to Derek’s rump. The forest courses past them, and soon, Isaac’s speeds begin to drop, creating the perfect opening for Stiles to get ahead and overtake Derek. His agile movements allow him flow through the gap, overtaking the wolves. He hears a growl rumbling from Derek as he overtakes him, but he pays it no attention.

He leads them out of the forest and into the car park, taking a seat next to Derek’s Camaro. A few minutes pass by and finally the wolves emerge from the forest. First comes Derek, then Scott and finally, Isaac. They all stagger over to him and shift back to human forms, chests heaving and beads of sweat on their foreheads.

Derek makes his way over to his car, and Stiles hesitantly averts his eyes from Derek’s god like naked body, as he reaches over him and into the Camaro, retrieving some clothes and tossing them to the other guys, keeping his own firmly in his hand. He has to have some boundaries, right? No ogling Derek in public.

Once the others are all clothed, he turns to face them, meeting two amused expressions and one pissed off. Guess who it belongs to.

“Holy shit Stiles, what was that?”

“Yes, Stiles. What was that stunt you pulled?” Derek all but growls at Stiles. Was he referring to what happened in the woods, the haze, or now? Clarification would be nice. He rolls his fox eyes at Derek. He can’t answer right now, seeing as he’s still in his fox form, but surely he’ll get the eye roll.

Scott and Derek stare at Stiles, waiting for an answer. None come. He just sits there, looking expectantly up at the both of them, his foxy muzzle twisted into a sly smirk. Or the fox equivalent.   

Isaac chirps up, sharing some much needed logic with the other two werewolves. “Uh guys, I don’t think Stiles can talk right now, seeing as he doesn't have functioning vocal cords”. Not to mention that if he were to change back right now, he would be naked. Naked in front of Derek, without a change of clothes. Yeah, not happening. Anyway, they wouldn't have thought to bring a change of clothes with them, none of them are that organised. A wave of realization hit’s Scott, an understanding look reaching his face, then transforming into curiosity.

“Right, but can’t he do it magically or something?” Stiles thinks to himself; No Scott, no I can’t. I've tired.

“He isn't doing it now, so I guess the answer is no?”  Isaac doesn't sound very convincing.

Derek all but grunts, done with the pointless conversation. He turns to the boys. “You two, go to Scott’s house. Stiles, get in the car. We’re going to have a little chat.” Scott gives Derek a quizzical look, then flickers his gaze over to Stiles “Now Scott!” Derek booms, allowing a small amount of his alpha voice to leak in, leaving no room for any arguments. What got into Derek’s pants?

Scott looks to Stiles with a sympathetic look, but is peeled away by Isaac before he can take any action. The two boys wander back into the woods, heading for Scott’s home. Stiles whimpers a little, as he sees Scott and Isaac fading into the woods.

 Regaining his gusto, Stiles walks to Derek’s passenger side, but is stopped as he goes to jump through the door by Derek’s heavy hand on his back. He looks up to see Derek reaching down, concentration etched into his features, gently scooping Stiles into his arms, careful to avoid hurting him. It’s an odd sensation, being held firmly by two burly arms, circled around him, stopping him from wriggling out of his grip, but in that moment, he can’t think of anything more comforting.  “You’re going to scratch the seats if I let you jump in”.

Pfft. Obviously Derek doesn't know foxes have retractable claws. He gently sets Stiles down on the passenger seat, walking around the car before finally sitting behind the wheel, clicking his seat belt before turning his attention to Stiles, giving him a once over before stepping on the gas, the force throwing Stiles back in his seat.

The idiot didn't put on Stiles’ seat belt, and if they were to crash, he would be a goner. Sure, he may have accelerated healing, but that doesn't make him immortal.

As Derek’s car weaves in and out of traffic, Stiles assesses his likelihood of surviving a car crash. The odds are not in his favor. Deciding it would be better to be embarrassed than to die, he cautiously rises from his sitting position, gradually making his way over to Derek. Don’t want to spook the driver. That’s not to say that Derek doesn't notice. Because he certainly does.

“Stiles. I have to drive.”  Derek, very unconvincingly says to Stiles, who responds by wriggling his way further onto Derek’s lap, ignoring Derek’s ‘I don’t have time for this shit’ tone and weaves his body between Derek’s and the seat belt. Safety first, right? He settles into Derek’s lap, receiving a sigh from Derek, who hasn't tried to move him off his lap yet, Stiles can’t tell if it’s a sigh of relief or frustration. Most likely the latter. But god, the werewolf smells delicious. Stiles can’t help but nuzzle Derek’s stomach, Derek’s body tensing at the sudden show of affection, before he is carried away by the blissful promise of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter is so short. Expect the upload of chapters to be way more spaced out now, I have sac's almost every week. :( I'll still try to upload whenever i can, thanks for sticking with me!


	8. The loft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles & Derek have a little chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Guys! I know this chapter took a little longer to upload so I want to thank you for being so patient!  
> Okay, so I know this isn't really what Derek's loft looks like, but I wanted to do my own representation of it.  
> If you have any Questions or suggestions make sure to let me know!
> 
> Sorry about the beginning, I just wanted to show off Stiles' coat's colours, since he can't really describe them himself.  
> :)

For those who were wondering, This is what Stiles' current fox coat looks like.

 

(line art by Singarl, available here > [Fox lineart](http://singarl.deviantart.com/art/Free-Fox-Lineart-256061082) )

My [Tumblr](http://fox-pause.tumblr.com/) 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Stiles is awoken from his tranquil dreams as cold air brushes against his fur, seeping away the heat from Derek’s lap as he is shifted from his lap into his arms. Derek’s arms tighten around him as he walks into the elevator, steading him for the sway of the elevators assent. Stiles vision bobs with each heavy step, his eyelids slowly resisting sleep, opening that little bit further, as if every step brings Stiles back into reality. Derek Juggles Stiles as he fumbles for the button, while Stiles gets a good look at his surroundings. The elevator is old and, as Stiles suspects, unreliable. The button brightens to a soft yellow after the third press, the elevator sputtering to life and slowly climbing the aged cables. It reminds Stiles of the elevators you expect to see in some c-rated horror flick where the effects are far from believable, just before the killer attacks. ‘Maybe now isn’t the best time to be thinking of that’ Stiles considers a moment later. Not when you’re stuck in a defective elevator with the most aggressive werewolf you know, and you’re in his arms. Rather tightly, too.

The doors stagger open, revealing the loft. Stiles twists his way out of Derek’s taut hold, landing on the floor with the hushed clack of his claws hitting the solid surface. He raises his muzzle to the musty air, inhaling deeply as Derek makes his way over to his dresser and begins shuffling through his clothes. The loft smells like it’s only being lived in half the time which, really, no surprises there. It’s extremely spacious, but at the same time, it feels neglected. Like the person living there is afraid to spend the time to really make it _theirs_. The loft is so very ordered, so very neat. So much like the wolf to whom this den belongs to, so unlike Stiles.

 He turns in a slow circle, taking in the strict placement of the furniture. There are four concrete pillars piercing the roof, two on each side of the room, but not quite touching the walls. A small carefully made bed is tucked into the darkest corner of the room, with a small bedside table at its side. At the foot of the bed sits a massive set of industrial windows, no curtains. Sitting in the light of the windows is a long high table, with a single, simple lamp resting on its surface, underneath its shade multiple books lay sprawled about, as if left after a big discovery was made. It’s easily the messiest section of the room. Stiles can picture Derek spending all his free time sitting at that table, pouring himself into those books, consuming and categorising all their knowledge for later use. To the left of the windows is a staircase that slowly twists around itself, its design simple and elegant at the same time. Sitting between the pillars on the left side is an uninviting three seater couch with a short, hollow table and a lamp on either end. A low coffee table sits in front of the couch, mismatched chairs at either end.

Derek waves a bundle of clothes in Stiles’ face and throws them onto the couch. ‘I’m a fox, not a dog. I don’t play fetch’ he thinks to himself. If he had eyebrows, we would be raising them in a ‘really?’ gesture.  When Stiles doesn’t move, because uh, _Derek’_ s standing right there. Derek huffs and heads up the stairs, muttering something about ‘modesty supposedly being dead’.

Stiles waits until Derek’s a safe distance upstairs and makes his way to the couch and shifts, loving the feeling of having that certain itch scratched. He takes his time getting changed, stretching every now and then. Really, after such a long day he’s just grateful to have opposable thumbs. He tries to make himself comfortable on the couch, but it just isn’t happening. Where is Derek anyway? His leg bounces impatiently on the floor, sending faint vibrations ricocheting throughout the loft. He can hear Derek quietly moving around above him talking in hushed tones on the phone, his feet scuffing the floor every now and then as he paces back and forth. When he finally emerges, He’s changed into grey sweats and a loose fitting black shirt.

 He looks awful and you can practically feel the exhaustion radiating from his features. Stiles can’t remember if he looked like this before, or if he’s only noticing now but he’s pretty sure he looked fine before. Derek reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone and tosses it to Stiles. “Call your dad and tell him you’re spending the night at Scott’s”.

“Am I?”

“No”

“Right, stupid question.”

Stiles calls his dad, who was working late at the Station. He tells him he’s spending the night at Scott’s, yes he has eaten already, and no, he doesn’t need his pillow. He turns to face Derek, who’s sitting on the coffee table. “Let’s get this over with.” Stiles nods and Derek cocks an eyebrow, resting his head on a single closed fist.

In an even tone Derek asks, “How long have you been able to shift?”

He scrunches his face in an effort to remember “uhh. I’m not too sure. I think it was after I went to visit Lydia. So maybe just over a year? I don’t really know, I kind of lost track of time there for a while. Huh.”

Clearly not impressed, Derek rubs the bridge of his nose. “Let’s move on then, shall we?”

“Sure. You’re the boss” Derek’s nostrils flare, but he doesn’t say anything.

He points to Stiles’ chest “How long have you been able to do that?”

“Do what?” It’s almost like the werewolf doesn’t know the English language.

“The heartbeat trick”. Oh right, he wants to know about the spells. Of course. “Do you mean magic, Derek?” Stiles’ lips quirk up at the edge in a lopsided smile.

“You can call it whatever you like. How long have you been able to do it?”

Straight to the point, hey Derek. “Not too long. Like I said, I’ve never been able to perform many spells without passing out afterwards. We should be celebrating instead of sitting here. I’ve never been able to do that before.”

Derek said to himself, “You must be training with Deaton.” Gee. Thanks Sherlock.  Then back to Stiles, “How much magic do you know?”

“Not much. I can hide myself pretty well, using the ‘heart beat trick’ and other spells, but nothing really special.” He wants the conversation to stop. It feels like Derek’s peering into his soul, and he doesn’t like what he’s seeing. He gazes down at his sweats, picking up small balls of fluff, flinging them across the room.

Derek growls low in his throat, a small warning. Stiles is forced to move his gaze back to the werewolf. “Why didn’t you tell Scott or any of your friends? Pack doesn’t do that to each other, we’re supposed to be family Stiles. You’re supposed to trust me!” His tone is heated, anger tainting the overarching intent of the question.

Stiles flinches and bows his head, eyes darting from the elevator to the staircase looking for an escape, his animal instincts threatening to take over. Derek sighs and reaches out to take Stiles’ hand, and cautiously, he gives it to him.

In a much quieter, softer voice Derek explains; “You’re supposed to tell us what’s happening Stiles. If we don’t know everything, we can’t protect you properly.” Derek looks a little disappointed but sounds sincere, so Stiles takes the apology for what it is.

Stiles scrambles to explain himself. “I would’ve told you, I just-I didn’t know how you would react to me being a fox. It’s not normal for a fox to be a member of a wolf pack.” He looks up at Derek, hoping he’ll understand.

“We are so not an ordinary pack” Derek’s gaze hooks Stiles, and the two are locked in a staring match.

Stiles searches Derek’s eyes for some sort of answer, but instead is distracted by the crinkle around the wolf’s eyes, hinting at slight amusement.

Seriously? “You think this is funny?”

“No, I think you getting flustered is funny. Maybe even a little cute. Go to bed Stiles, its late” He smirks at Stiles, drops his hand and moves upstairs. What Just happened?

Meanwhile, Stiles’ mouth is almost touching the floor and his eyes are practically popping out of his head. ‘No way he really said that. Not old sour wolf’. He looks around the room, searching for witnesses. “Nobody saw that?! Seriously” He shakes his head and moves onto the bed. Is it too farfetched to think the wolf will join him? Probably. He removes his shirt and tosses it across the room, the only item out of place, but opts to keep the sweats on after remembering he’s been forced to go commando. He shimmies down the bed between the covers, closing his eyes once again to re-join the darkness that is the realm of sleep.

A little later, maybe 4 or 5 in the morning he feels something warm snake itself around his waist, a heated breeze gliding against his neck. His eyes are too heavy to open so instead he snuggles into the warmth and drifts off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me guys, It means the world to me!
> 
> Please let me know in the comments below what you think about the story so far! 
> 
> Did you guys like the coloring of Stiles' coat? hint.. It's one of two!


	9. Maple Syrup fun times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles wakes the next morning, Derek's nowhere to be seen. 
> 
> Maybe, just maybe Stiles get's up to a little mischief while Derek's out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short, lighthearted chapter this time. shit gets real after this one.   
> Hope you enjoy it :)
> 
>  
> 
> Inspired by the Native American story; 'A fox tale'.

He wakes up feeling uneasy. It’s like a heavy presence buzzing in the back of his mind, barely enough to be heard, but too much to be ignored. He blinks once, twice then three times, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The room is too bright. The wall of light pouring in from the windows assaults his delicate pupils, the light screaming too much to continue unnoticed. He stretches and moves to the edge of the bed. Who the fuck doesn’t install curtains? Ah, yes, now he remembers. Derek Hale. He looks around the loft in search of said offender, but no one seems to be home. The only thing that seems to remain with him is the fresh scent that clings to the bed, the smell of pine needles, charcoal and dust. He sneezes. Derek’s gone. Maybe he said something offensive in his sleep last night? Nah, that can’t be it. Stiles only drools, he doesn’t sleep talk. He tries not to think of it as his fault that Derek left, but it’s kind of hard when you’ve driven someone out of their own house.

Stiles moves from the bed to the table, shaking his head to try to clear his senses, retrieving his shirt from the floor mid-way. The books that were strewn about yesterday have been cleared off, and in their place lays a pen and a single piece of lined paper with the message:

_‘Gone to talk with pack. Try not to break anything. See yourself out._

_-D’_

Stiles screws up his face. There are so many things wrong with those three sentences. He can’t help but feel angry and a little betrayed at the ‘ _Gone to talk with pack’_. What the fuck does that mean? Isn’t Stiles pack? Hadn’t Derek said that over and over yesterday? In fact, Stiles distinctly remembers Derek telling him “We are so not an ordinary pack”. He said ‘WE’, as in you and _me_. Stiles included. What a hypocrite. There he was yesterday lecturing Stiles for not including the pack in everything that’s going on in his life, then the next day, he goes and does exactly the same thing. So much for setting a good example. Looks like Stiles is on his own. Again.

It’s not like that’s all that’s wrong with the note. Who does Derek think he is with his ‘Try not to break anything’. Since when has Stiles ever broken anything of _Derek’s._ So much for their little heart to heart yesterday. And Stiles really thought they were getting somewhere. It would’ve been nice to wake up to a more personal note. Something along the lines of ‘Good chat, look forward to seeing you at the next pack meeting’ would’ve sufficed.

Anger bristles beneath his skin, making him see red. His eyes skate around the room. He has to do something, something clever. Something that’ll make Derek feel the same level of anger as Stiles is feeling. Something so ridiculous, it has Stiles written all over it. Nothing comes. Stiles angrily grabs the paper and pen, flips over the paper to the opposite side and begins to draw his masterpiece. He’s about ¾ of the way through when he gets the oddest idea.

He makes the mad dash to Derek’s makeshift kitchen (which happens to be upstairs), hearing the pen clatter to the floor halfway up the steps, ransacking the cupboards until he comes across the object he’s looking for. Maple syrup. Loads of it.

(Now, I think it’s only fair if I explain to you the importance of Maple syrup to Derek. Derek is the kinda guy who sticks to a pattern, he likes routine. Doesn’t need it, but enjoys it. Derek is well known throughout the pack to enjoy his Maple syrup maybe a little too much, sometimes having an entire bottle to himself on his pancakes. Derek just so happens to have a few in the kitchen too.)

He takes the first bottle, heads back downstairs and squeezes the contents onto his hand, watching the syrup flow like lava through his open fingers and onto the floor. He takes a minute, allowing his devious plan to fully blossom in his mind. The perfect revenge. He takes his handful of maple syrup, walks up to the nearest object (the couch) and smears the syrup along the entire back length of the couch. He makes sure to really push it into the fabric, only happy once it leaves a wet golden stain. Happy with the result, he dances around the room, turning this way and that, wiping furniture as he pleases. A dash on the table, a sprinkle on the sheets, a dab on the chairs.

Once he’s happy with the sticky mess, he uses a concealing spell, focusing on the scent and tint of the maple syrup. He easily distinguishes the scent, a golden thread among the other scents and pulls ever so slightly, the thread disappears, as does its trademark scent. He opens his eyes and deeply inhales. No trace of the Maple syrup remains. Good luck finding the sticky spots Derek.

He leaves his finished note on the coffee table, heads into the dingy elevator and begins his decent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll upload the next chapter either tomorrow or Monday, I know how annoying it is to have a short 800 word chapter uploaded, so I'll make sure the next one is over 1,000. Feel free to comment what you think of the story so far and please let me know if I made any grammatical errors. I write and edit this by myself, so sometimes I misspell words or have the wrong punctuation. It would be greatly appreciated. 
> 
> -Cheers guys, and thanks for reading as always.


	10. You Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles makes his way back home, cold and alone when that niggling noise returns to the back of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \------------------------------------------------------IMPORTANT-------------------------------------------------------  
> I just want to warn EVERYONE about a 'spoiler' heart attack victim. If you have someone (or have experienced one yourself) who has experienced a heart attack or is in danger of experiencing one, please, please be careful when reading this chapter. This is your warning!  
> \-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
> On a lighter note, I hope you enjoy this chapter! I really enjoyed writing it and doing the research for it. 
> 
> Cheers!

He’s forced to walk home.

He takes the quiet backstreets and abandoned alleyways as a safety precaution, something he promised his baby he would never, ever do again. It’s not because he hates walking, he doesn’t. He loves most physical activity. The problem is that it’s become a bit too much for his fox senses to handle. He can hear everything. The old lady across the road’s knee creaking as she shuffles along the uneven footpath, the people in their houses watching early morning cartoons, birds dodging between the branches as they chase each other aimlessly, the malfunctioning streetlamp buzzing an octave too high for human ears. It’s all just so incredibly loud and his control is starting to fray a little too much to handle.

As he’s walking down a quiet laneway, it becomes unbearable. He closes his eyes, but it doesn’t seem to help. A buzzing noise begins in the back of his mind. It’s the same one from when he woke up, building itself up for the intangible climax, layer upon layer of just white noise inside his head. He covers his ears and glances up. There’s a figure walking towards him. The buzzing grows to unimaginable heights. He focus on the figure, a man. Distraction is good, even if it doesn’t stop the incessant noise in his skull.

 As the man approaches Stiles can see him more clearly. He seems to be elderly, with a heavy jacket to shield him from the morning chill. The man seems unfairly tired, and at a second glance his face seems so odd, there’s something different, something not quite _right_. It’s all slumped to the side, like a puppeteer attached a string to his mouth and pulled until it broke. The man stumbles nearer. No he’s not tired, he’s sick. Really, really sick. Stiles can smell the illness radiating from him. It’s Heavy and sticky in his throat and burns its way into his lungs. He turns and coughs, the whiplash making the noise become pain, a sharp headache and pains in his neck. The man stumbles over a wider crack in the footpath not three feet in front of Stiles, landing on the ground in a heap.

Stiles instantly bends over the man, drawing him into his lap. He doesn’t need to check his pulse to know the man’s heart is struggling to function, he can hear it. His heart desperately trying to pump blood through his body, but there’s something clogging the arteries. A heart attack. Stiles searches his pockets for his cell to call 911. He searches for a few seconds, but no phone. Realisation dawns. These aren’t his clothes. He’s wearing the change of clothes Derek gave him last night. His cell is sitting on his bed at home. Fuck.

“Shit”

He turns and looks at his surroundings. There’s a large house on the other side of the old wooden fence. He could easily run to his own home and back, but he’s not sure how long the man has. He’ll just have to hope the owners don’t mind good-minded trespassers. Acting quickly, he gently places the man on the ground, but as he goes to get up, the throbbing in his head increases.

It’s so unbelievably loud. It’s a million children screaming at the top of their lungs. Its nails on the chalkboard. It’s everything you could possibly imagine, all at once. He screams, anything to relieve the pain and falls to the ground, beside the man. He tries to get up, but his limbs won’t move from beside him. The pain in his head has paralysed him from the neck down. He turns his head to the man, whose eyes are wide in his skull.

“I’m sorry”. His voice breaks. There’s nothing he can do.

He searches the man’s face, sees the terror in his eyes. He takes in all of the man, his clothing, everything. He tries to find something else to remember him by, something that isn’t horror and terror. But his eyes quickly fall to the man’s jacket. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance he has the answer.

He focuses on the agony, the buzzing in his mind, rather than focusing on just making the pain disappear, like he did last time. he concentrates on amplifying it to somehow use it as a strength. It slightly eases off. It’s not gone. It’s just bearable now.

Excruciatingly slowly he manages to drag his arm through the space between them to the jacket’s first pocket, willing his fingers to move. To search. Nothing. The second and third wield the same results. He whimpers when in the last inside pocket, his hands clutch the comforting cold metal of the cell. He brings it to his face, swipes to the emergency screen and calls 911. But the buzzing’s back, and its worse. He can’t hear a word the operator’s saying. He puts the phone down at his side, defeated.

He cries out louder than ever before, frustration and anger mingling together. Louder than the ear-splitting shrill inside his head and just pleads for someone to come help them. Anyone. It stops.

There’s no noise at all, and for a second he thinks he’s gone deaf, but then he hears the quick intake of breath next to him as a dark figure glides over him. Thank god he thinks. Somehow the Ambulance got here. He strains his neck to look at the EMT, but immediately wishes he hadn’t.

There, floating completely parallel to the man is a monster.  Stiles finds himself staring curiously at the monster. It’s got big pale eyes that you simply can’t look away from, surrounded by what seems to be human flesh. That’s as far as it goes though. The flesh, that is. The entire thing is covered head to toe in obsidian black feathers that taper off at the end to reveal two large crow’s feet. Its head is the most compelling though. It’s a man’s face, or the loose suggestion of a face, cut almost in half to reveal several rows of serrated teeth. Its wings cast a depthless shadow over itself and the man, completely consuming his view. The earth stills as it inhales, and an ungodly scream rips itself from the man’s lips as something almost completely transparent begins to exit him. His screams break Stiles’ gaze, the feeling of wrongness settles in his awareness where before there was curiosity.  

Stiles moves to a crouch, now freely able to move and pounces on the monster, aiming for what he’s pretty sure is the throat, poising himself for the kill, but passes completely through the monster. He lands roughly on the other side of the man and stares at his fingers. They’re covered in thick black tendrils that wrap their way around his hand, quickly disappearing into his skin, buzzing beneath the surface of his skin. He looks up to the monster, who is staring quizzically at him, more inquisitive than threatening. He stares back at the monster, planning his next method of attack when the distant screaming of sirens break his train of thought.

He turns in the direction of the sirens. He guesses there’s roughly three trucks. He looks back to the monster, but there’s nothing there. Just the old man staring numbly at Stiles, his gaze empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there it is!  
> Let me know in the comments below what you think our monster is! If you get it right, you win my love and gratitude! :) (I'm piss poor, sorry that's all I can offer)
> 
> Also, I have a new tumblr, just for A03, so feel free to contact me there!  
> MA TUMBLR: http://fox-pause.tumblr.com/


	11. Black Veins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles Finds out what kind of monster attacked the old man, has a chat to Deaton and get's a gift he'd never expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Everyone,  
> I Just thought I'd warn you that nothing really happens in this chapter, more a filling-in-the-gaps type thing.

He made it home safely after that, thank fuck. Physically, that is. Mentally, he’s still leaning against the old wooden fence watching the EMT’s move the old man into the back of the van on a stretcher, hooking him up to the life support, allowing his lungs to provide oxygen to his deprived cells.

After they’ve checked Stiles’ vitals, they bombard him with various questions. What happened? How did you get here?  What were the man’s symptoms? They eventually blur together, the words morphing into the same, generic question, just pronounced differently. It doesn’t matter how they phrase it. He simply can’t respond with anything more than a muttered ‘no’, ‘I’m not sure’ and a simple shake of the head when his words become too heavy in his throat to ever leave his mouth. How would you respond? What do you say to try to explain what happened? There are no words, the English language hasn’t evolved to that extent yet. Nobody comes out of that the same way they go into it. Not even Stiles.

He sits in his room, crammed into the warmest corner, sheltered from the outside world by his mother’s favourite blanket. It’s always been something that calms him down, slows the world to a point where it’s bearable again, where he can put everything into its rightful place from a safe distance. It’s the thick patchwork in abrasive hues, the clusters of lint balls lining its surface, the memories of gran diligently weaving the story together. Basically, to him, it’s the definition of comfort.

It’s also usually the thing that stops him from wanting to shift, the only thing that dulls the ache. For a little while there he’d completely forgotten about it, consumed by the thrill of the shift and the liberation of flesh turning to fur. Tonight, it does its job perfectly.

He texts Deaton, asking if they can meet early tomorrow. He takes his time texting Scott from his safety blanket, including every little detail he can remember, right down to the smallest smoky tendril. Scott replies immediately, asking if Stiles needs someone to talk to and if he’s ok. When Stiles replies with a genuine but firm ‘no’, Scott decides to head out to the scene to do some ‘sniffing around’ to see if he can find anything Stiles missed.

Stiles pours himself into hours upon hours of researching the monster. It’s the only thing he can think of that’ll keep him sane. He just has to do _something_ to keep him preoccupied. To keep him from doing something incredibly stupid, like going for a run while the monsters still out there or running straight back to Derek’s loft.

He has to stop by the time he’s got over 23 completely different tabs running in the background, as he listens to some ‘extra-terrestrial guru’ on YouTube talking about the possibilities of aliens taking over in 2016. He can feel himself slowly falling asleep, his lids becoming heavier with each passing second. He looks at the clock. 3:21 am. Shit. The Sherriff I’ll be home any minute now. He sheds his shirt and puts on a pair of fresh batman pj pants before clambering beneath the covers, adoring the chill of fresh sheets against his skin and the fabricated safety of his mother’s blanket, one of the many layers keeping him warm throughout the night.

He wakes up in the early hours of the morning as his bedroom door slowly creaks open, his father smiling proudly down at him. If only he knew what Stiles was hiding from him.

The Sherriff waits for his son’s bleary eyes to focus on him, before initiating the conversation. “I’m off to work now Stiles”

“Alright” Stiles smiles lightly.

The Sherriff shifts awkwardly in the doorway, the floorboards creaking loudly as he re-positions himself into some awkward lean against the wall. “I’ll be back late. I’ve got a meeting with the deputies. I’ll be back around 9. You want me to bring home some Chinese?”

Stiles smiles. His dad knows that’s the only remotely healthy takeaway Stiles will let him get, even if it’s half a mile out of his way. “Yeah, sure dad”

As he turns to leave, he looks to Stiles “I’m proud of you kid. I hope you know that”

“Yeah dad, I know. You too. I mean I-um. Yeah”

The Sheriff chuckles lightly “Stiles. It’s ok. And uh, thanks” He closes the door gently behind him as he leaves.

Stiles stays in his warm, sheltered bed, not quite ready to face the world quite this early in the morning. When he is finally ready to face the world and all its atrocities a full hour later, he sees he has a message from Deaton.

Deaton: You need to get down here. We have to talk.

Way to start the day. Stiles begrudgingly moves to the bathroom after texting Deaton, letting him know he’ll be there in 10, his feet tingling against the chill of the bathroom tiles. He looks at his reflection in the mirror, assessing his face for any possible injuries he somehow missed last night. He twists his mouth this way and that, stretching his skin until he can see his spattering of moles on the left, then on the right. He reaches out to brush his greasy hair out of his eyes, but has to stop himself halfway. Something’s incredibly different, somethings incredibly _wrong_. How could he have missed this before?

His fingernails are dark, as if bruised. There are black veins, reaching from his nail beads to his first knuckle. On every fucking finger.

 He looks down to his pale, bony fingers, splayed before his eyes. He strokes the new, feint black veins gently, noting how they glimmer gold in the mirror. They’re paper thin, and immediately remind him of lavender veins, the way they’re only visible from a certain angle. He gingerly applies pressure to his nails, to see if they’ve been bruised, but they don’t fade and don’t hurt, so he leaves them be. His eyes widen as he realises they’re in the exact place he touched the monster before it vanished.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He makes it to Deaton’s a little earlier than expected. Of course, he’s all flailing limbs and half formed sentences before he just thrusts his hand into Deaton’s face. But Deaton just ushers Stiles into the back room and gestures pointedly to the chair.

“Sit Stiles. You’re putting the animals on edge.” Stiles does sit, but not without the exasperated look. “First let’s address the most pressing issue, shall we?”

Stiles nods, but can’t keep the irritation out of his voice “Maybe that my hand has grown black veins!  Black, Deaton. Not blue, black!” Stiles

Deaton just waits silently with his brows raised for Stiles to finish his little rant. “That, Stiles, Isn’t the most important issue, although it may be one of our only advantages”

“Advantages? What do you mean?”

Deaton continues, ignoring Stiles. “Stiles, describe what the monster looked like”

Stiles sighs tiredly, rubbing a hand over his face. “It was big, black and had these long dark feathers running along its body.” he gestures loosely to his own body to give Deaton a vague reference. “I-Its mouth was massive, almost looked like the monster had its face cut clean in half. Its eyes were pale blue, crystal clear. And it had crow’s feet.”

“Interesting”

“You know what it is?”

Deaton nods and walks over to his examination table, where there is a large, brown leather covered book sitting under the overhead light. The book itself is ancient; dusty well-worn leather and stained pages. Deaton flips to a page that reads ‘Raven Mocker’. He points to a beast that closely resembles the monster Stiles saw yesterday.  “The monster you’re describing sounds a lot like this one here. It’s a Raven Mocker, a very powerful being capable of literally robbing people of their lives, and adding the stolen years to their own lives. Every couple lives it steals, adds another one to its life. The older the Raven mocker, the more powerful it becomes” Stiles nods, and Deaton continues. “However, most Raven mockers are known to have masters. They’re known to freely give the years they steal to their masters as a sign of loyalty, but as a result the master becomes completely dependent on the Mocker. Eventually, in some cruel twist of fate, the mocker will eventually spend so much time caring for its master it completely forgets about stealing lives for itself and dies. The master then dies too, unable to care for themselves properly.” Deaton pushes to book towards Stiles. “Is that the creature you saw?”

“Yeah, I’m sure” Deaton nods, and sighs.

“You want the good news or the bad news?”

“Good. Let’s start with the good news.”

Deaton nods and flips the page, showing an intricate list of herbs and spells. “The good news, they’re not completely invincible. Those markings of yours are the key to killing it, without it, you don’t stand a chance.” Deaton points at the second spell on the list. “Now for the bad news. The spell to kill it is extremely difficult, not to mention that the ingredients needed are incredibly rare and fickle to work with. That’s all accomplishable though, the real issue here is you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you Stiles. You’re the one who needs to mix and cast the spell. You’re not anywhere near that skill level yet, and the raven mocker’s going to need to feed again soon, you won’t be ready by then.”

“How long do we have before it feeds?”

“We’ve got a month, maybe more. Especially if it’s been summoned.”

“I gotta go tell Scott” He’s got to plan _something_ , prepare some kind of plan to stop the Raven Mocker before it feeds again. He can’t just sit here, waiting for someone to die while he practices his magic. Stiles makes an urgent move to leave, but Deaton stops him with a hand on this elbow and offers the book to Stiles.

“Wha-“

“Keep the bestiary, you might find something I missed.” Stiles openly stares at Deaton, gobsmacked, and looks down in awe at the mountain of information held in his slightly cold, clammy hands.

“You sure? I mean, this would’ve taken literally forever to compile, not to mention the research you would’ve had to put into this.” But he’s hoping, silently praying that Deaton’s being serious and not just playing some ill-timed joke.

“Yes Stiles, I’m sure. I’ve basically got it all in here anyway.” He puts two fingers to his temple. “I did write it.” He smirks at Stiles. “About those veins, let me know if they change colour or shape”

Stiles swallows loudly. “Will do.” Deaton nods and turns, and Stiles takes that as his cue to leave. Stiles enters the cold outdoors as an icy blast of wind nips at his nose, pinches at his cheeks. He clutches the book tightly to his chest, shielding it the best he can against the elements and enters his battered old Jeep, heading for home.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'd Just like to say thanks for reading as always, it's a pleasure, and I don't think you quite understand how much it means to me to have people not only read, but LIKE my stories too. :) It's a real mood lifter. seriously.

You can find me on [Tumblr!](http://fox-pause.tumblr.com/) <\--here

(P.S I'm kinda thinking about getting a Beta reader to check my grammar and help me with the dialog. If you have any info It's kindly appreciated.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know What you thought about this chapter guys! I know the writing's kinda different.


	12. Distractions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Scott spend the day at Stiles' house looking at the bestiary Deaton gave Stiles, but it takes longer than expected.

The sheriff finds the boys early the next morning, sleeping.

Both boys are snuggled together closely, barely under the covers. Scott’s arm is loosely looped around Stiles’ shoulders, keeping the two from falling too far away from each other, while Stiles’ head rests heavily against Scott’s shoulder. Stiles’ drool coats the entire right side of his face, pooling on Scott’s shoulder. It’s already beginning to dry at the corners of his mouth. The soft snoring and the slow rise of chests are their only tie to the world of the living. They both look utterly exhausted, as if they’d spent the entire night pouring themselves into the large book nestled uncomfortably between them, finding all its secrets. The book itself seems to be vaguely familiar to John, but the small pieces of red, blue and green plastic sticking out in all haphazard places, marking particular pages for future reference are new.

The Sheriff steps closer to the boys, takes in the picture before him and smiles. He loves them both so dearly, both of his boys. He glances at the front of the book, but can’t make out the title. It seems to be written in some squiggly font that makes his eyes sore. How the boys do it, he’ll never know. He makes sure to close the door quietly behind him, but can’t help wondering where he’s seen that book before.

* * *

 

Stiles wakes before Scott, who, despite his enhanced werewolf abilities, is still completely dead to the world. After untangling himself and carefully tucking Scott back in, he soundlessly leaves the room, book tucked securely under his arm. Stiles is still tired, exhausted even, but this new bundle of knowledge placed so carefully in his hands is just so tempting, begging to be read again and again, memorised, and distributed to the rest of the pack he can’t help but obsess over it.

He slowly descends the steps, using the tiniest hint of magic to keep them from creaking, and makes himself comfortable at the dining table, spreading his things absolutely everywhere, in the typical Stillinski fashion. He categorises and sorts the information, putting it into an alphabetic order, using a handy spell Deaton taught him in the beginning to translate the ancient writing. He’d used it last night to read the text aloud to Scott, who looked eagerly at the pictures of the various monsters, herbs and diagrams. At the time he’d thought he’d have absolutely no use for at all, but so far, all of Deaton’s lessons, although small, have helped him immensely.

The morning light filters softly through the kitchen window, illuminating the table and its contents beautifully.  The house is completely silent, not a single noise can be heard, excluding the occasional flipping of a page and Scott’s light snoring from upstairs. The book lays open obnoxiously before him, displaying its contents for all to see. Disappointingly, only half read (even though he’s been pouring himself into decoding and documenting since Scott got here).

Stiles has to take a break when he realises he’s written he same notes on pixies three times already, and the words are slowly but surely starting to blur together. Sometimes, when he gets tired he finds it hard to concentrate, and his spells start failing. His stomach rumbles loudly, begging to be fed. He decides to take a small break, maybe grab some food and makes a move to get up, pushing away from the table, but is distracted by a quiet noise outside.

He glances out the door and sees the source of the noise. It’s a small, grey rabbit, crunching away at the longer blades of grass, shuffling forward on tiny paws. Stiles’ first instinct is to run wildly after it, chasing it until he has it firmly clamped in his jaws. He only just manages to reign in his instincts, thank god, and instead settles for staring at the rodent with an intensity he’s never achieved before that continues long after the rabbits gone. He just can’t stop thinking about shifting right there and sprinting out the door. God, he hasn’t been for a run in _forever._

Scott joins him in the early hours of the afternoon, bleary eyed. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands and drops himself loudly onto the seat next to Stiles, who’s sitting remarkable still (for Stiles). He stares blindly at the random notes sprawled across the table for a long time, trying to figure out the key to Stiles’ organised chaos. There are various figures and jumbles of unrelated words hurriedly scrawled on loose pieces of paper before him, all arranged in some bizarre system only Stiles can make any sense of. He clears his throat and looks to Stiles for some sort of clarification on the mess before him, but Stiles’ eyes are transfixed on something outside, something Scott can’t see.

Scott clears his throat again, louder this time, and Stiles snaps out of his trance. He looks questioningly to Scott, who does the same to Stiles, both waiting for answers. An unmeasured amount of time passes, before Scott finally speaks.

“You ok?” he cocks his head at Stiles.

Stiles answers Scott immediately, but his voice sounds uncertain. “Yeah buddy”

“You sure? You were just staring out the door. At nothing. For like, a solid 5 minutes.”

Stiles quickly glances to where the rabbit was, as if expecting to see it still sitting there, lazily eating grass. Of course there’s nothing there, the rabbits long gone. “Let’s go for a run” Stiles says distractedly. He needs to get out of the house, have a chance to clear his head.

Scott stares at Stiles, as if waiting for the punchline before realising there isn’t one. “Stiles, it’s not even 4o’clock yet. _And_ I don’t have my running stuff!” Scott looks appalled that Stiles could even suggest such a thing.  

“No Scott, I mean lets go for a _run_.” Scott stares at Stiles for a second before it really sinks in.

“Oh Right, a _run_ run. Yeah, just let me tell Derek.” Stiles pouts. Why would Scott need to ask for Derek’s permission?

“Why do you need to tell Derek?” Stiles manages to make his voice sound somewhat uninterested in the question, when he’s really anything but.

Scott answers innocently, “He likes to know where all members of the pack are, especially when there’s a potential threat.” Stiles thinks about what Scott’s really saying, whether Scott meant to say it or not. The realisation hits him hard, and if he’s honest, it hurts a little.

“He’s got the pack following me, doesn’t he?” It’s the only thing that makes sense, as Stiles often neglects to tell people where he’s going and for how long. His previous run in the preserve is an excellent example of his negligence. He’s just pissed no one asked him his opinion before deciding it would be a good idea to follow his every movement.

Scott’s blush is answer enough, although he does stutter for a second, before bowing his head in defeat. “Yeah” Although Stiles wants to be mad, he knows he can’t. At least, not at Scott.  

Scott texts Derek a short message, saying something about the preserve and the time, and Stiles can’t help thinking how very military-ish it sounds, before they pack a small bag and head to the preserve in Stiles’ battered old jeep.

After about ten minutes of driving along the badly lit, bumpy roads, the awkward silence between them is broken when Scott spies Stiles’ darkened veins and fingers with a “Dude how did I not see that before!”, and well, Stiles loves to give his ‘Oblivious Scott’ lecture. Soon, the two are chatting loudly together about the most ridiculous things and singling loudly to ‘call me maybe’. Stiles is surprised they didn’t crack any windows.

When they finally get there, it’s late afternoon and the preserve is colder than Stiles remembers it ever being. It’s completely overcast, casting the park in an eerie light. Both boys shiver as they remove every item of clothing and stash them in the bag in the hollow of a tree, all modesty seemingly forgotten. Stiles shifts first. The rush of energy that floods his veins re-energises him, awakening hibernating senses. He looks to Scott, who still hasn’t shifted, but is looking down at Stiles in awe.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.” He blinks and wipes his eyes before continuing “Wait. You’re a different colour now?” Stiles huffs, frustrated. He can’t see what colour he is, since foxes are colour blind, but he’s always been curious. Scott doesn’t need to rub it in. “Dude, you’re like, white.” If Stiles had eyebrows, they’d be like, halfway up his forehead. White was not what he was expecting. Maybe red, orange or even brown, but not white. Scott makes an ‘ah!’ noise and rummages through Stiles’ stuff until he finds his phone, pointing the camera Stiles’ direction. Stiles strikes his most indecent pose while Scott fumbles with the camera. He’s never been too good with tech. Scott takes enough photos to fill his phone’s memory, and puts it back in the hollow before shifting. Stiles is reminded of how damn painful shifting for the wolves must be as he hears Scott’s spine snap, twist and heal multiple times before the shift is complete. Scott points his muzzle in the vague direction he wants to go and Stiles gives him an approving nod.  

The two lope off into the forest, Scott in the lead and Stiles following closely behind, too distracted to lead. He thinks about the bestiary, the pack and what he’ll say to Derek the next time he sees him. Derek better pray they don’t meet too soon.

* * *

 

 [My Tumblr](http://fox-pause.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me so long to write, I'm having a serious problem with motivation at the moment. Procrastinating is like, the best thing in my life right now. Sorry this chapter didn't really lead anywhere, but I kinda need to do some explaining before we dive into the action/romance again. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting, you have no idea how nice it is to read over them (again and again) when I'm feeling down. It's the best therapy AND ITS FREE! 
> 
> Don't forget, if you wanna chat to me ANYTIME I'm always available at my tumblr here --> http://fox-pause.tumblr.com


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know its been awhile so to compensate, I've made this chapter double the usual AND added an awkward sterek moment.
> 
> YAY FOR YOU GUYS

Low-hanging leaves are ripped violently from their branches as a bulky grey wolf comes bounding through the underbrush, using a mixture of strength and speed to create a clear path for his, in comparison, small friend to follow. The two run through the forest in a flurry, only ever slightly slowing to jump over fallen logs and various pitfalls. It’s only once their chests rise and fall sharply they choose to stop in a small clearing. Even were-creatures can run themselves ragged. Stiles takes cover under a large oak tree, catching his breath. He sits comfortably on his hunches, tail curled carefully around his body, peering over to his wolf friend, who at this current moment in time, seems to be rolling in shit.

And loving it.

Stiles makes a mental note to ask Scott about that later. He cocks his head, wondering in what world rolling in someone else’s poop is pleasurable, but has to stop himself when his mind takes a turn for something porn-orientated. Scott catches Stiles carefully watching him, winces, and makes his way over, seemingly already over his embarrassment. He sits beside Stiles, turning his head towards the sky, watching the stars twinkle and gleam, a sense of bewilderment enthralling him. Stiles understands the feeling. There’s just something about his fox form that brings him so much closer to everything else. It’s like he can feel everything’s energy, see the pathways. You know what the best part is? He’s part of it. Stiles shifts back to human form, but puts a firm hand on Scott’s shoulder when he attempts to too. He just wants to talk mindlessly, to be able to clear his head. To do that, he needs to talk -uninterrupted.

“Buddy, stay like that. It’s easier for me to talk to you like this.” Scott whines, but eventually nods in understanding.

Stiles looks over to his friend and raises a hand hesitantly over Scott’s shoulder blade, where the fur seems to be the thickest and softest. “Can I?” Scott’s tongue lolls out and Stiles takes that as a go-ahead.  He strokes Scott’s fur, marvelling at the wiry texture. He honestly thought it’d be a lot smoother. He turns his gaze back to the night sky, eye catching on the brightest star, which is also his favourite.

“See that bright one, right there” he closes one eye and points at the star. “It’s my favourite.” He lowers his arm, feeling Scott’s gaze on him, waiting for him to explain. “It’s called Sirius.” He waits until Scott’s eyes latch on to the star before continuing. “You want to know why it’s my favourite?” Scott’s tail makes a loud ‘thump thump’ noise. Stiles smiles. “Because every time I look at that star, I think of the Harry potter character, Sirius Black.” Scott huffs. “I used to love him.” He takes a moment to savour the bitter-sweet memories that wash over him like a wave. Savouring each one. “I think was mostly because he was mum’s favourite.” He laughs, but it’s nothing more than a deep exhale of breath. There’s nothing behind it. “I remember how proud she was when he punched Lucius Malfoy. She really thought that guy was a dick.” Scott whines, pushing his muzzle into Stiles’ palm. He pets Scott’s head, before turning to his friend and gesturing to the edge of the clearing. “Come on, I want to lead”.

Stiles shifts, and slowly begins walking into the forest. He makes sure he can hear Scott’s heavy footfalls following closely behind before turning the walk to a run. He runs fast and free, head tilted towards to sky, gaze fixed to the star. He follows it, chasing its light through the dappled canopy of the trees.

He follows the star for a long time, mind elsewhere. Scott eventually takes charge, catching a scent Stiles’ senses can’t quite decipher. Together, they follow it all the way to a large wire fence. He peaks through, Scott standing at his side. He sees a familiar large house lit up from within, the windows casting a warm light on the grass surrounding the property. It’s almost welcoming. Almost. He sticks his muzzle through a break in the wire, shivering as the cold metal meets his damp muzzle. A deep inhale tells him the owners had a lovely roast for dinner, judging from the gentle waft of rosemary, chicken and butter, but nothing more than that, which is funny, since he can see people moving about inside the house. It’s not anyone he doesn’t recognise either. It’s Allison and her father. He looks to Scott, who seems just as confused as him.

Scott takes a step back, away from the fence. He looks to Stiles with a confused expression and shifts. “Dude, can you smell that?” Stiles shakes his head. “Why can’t we smell her?” he looks at Stiles like he has all the answers, but Stiles just stares blankly back. Scott makes a move to jump the fence, but Stiles’ jaw has a firm hold on Scott’s arm before he can make the leap. What the hell is Scott thinking? Trespassing on the property of the only hunters in beacon hills that actually have the right bullets to kill you. That’s just asking for trouble. But he looks into Scott’s pleading eyes, and realises that his buddy, his bro, just wants to go to his girlfriend’s house. So Stiles releases his grip on Scott and shifts, praying that Chris Argent doesn’t feel the sudden need to look outside to their back yard.

“Look man, I know you haven’t seen her in ages, but couldn’t you at least wait until Chris is out of there?” Scott, after an incredible amount of staring on Stiles’ part, settles back down.  He looks longingly at the house, then back to Stiles.

“I have to talk to her.” Well duh, that much was obvious. Cue the staring, increased heart rate and clouded thinking.

“I know man, but maybe now isn’t the best time for that” He knows it isn’t his fault, but he can’t help feeling a little guilty. Scott’s been keeping himself busy all week by keeping his eye on Stiles, patrolling the woods after dark, because the wolves (Derek) still don’t trust him enough to be on his own.

“I’m going in there” Stiles nods, knowing there’s no way he’s going to be able to persuade Scott _not_ to do this.

But when he makes a move to get up and follow Scott’s lead, the wolf growls. “ _Alone_ , Stiles.” And turns before Stiles can get a word in, bounding over the fence and onto the roof.

He Stares at Scott, not sure if he’s actually being serious. Which he totally is. He turns with a huff, wondering what the hell happened to what little intelligence Scott had left, and makes his way back into the preserve. He walks with his head held low, ears pinned to his skull, tail between his legs. He hates leaving Scott on his own.

But he continues on his path anyway, head tilted once again towards the night sky. He watches Sirius glow brightly, like a beacon. He walks messily after the star, stopping every now and then to sniff a tree trunk or an old animal carcass. He thinks about Scott, stopping at the realisation that Scott doesn’t have any clothes with him. _Oh god_. It finally clicks. Allison and Scott-yep-ok-yes _that_ is happening. Understood. (But Scott smells like shit?-Must be true love)

It’s when he’s stopped that he takes in his surroundings. He’s somehow made his way to god-knows-where in the preserve. He’s got no idea what time it is, other than sometime of night, and there’s a dark sensation working its way up his spine that feels wrong. Dark. Evil. Just like before, but it’s so. Much. Worse. He recognises the spot, although not clearly, as where he fell into the haze. He remembers the orange hues that ate up the world, and his haste to get out of there almost triples, so he bolts in a random direction. Hoping, praying, he’s not going further into trouble than he already is. He stops again, quickly assessing his surroundings, recognising the path the wolves tore through the woods when they first found him.

He knows it’s probably no use, when bring hunted/followed by a flippin’ Raven Mocker, and applies his basic defensive spells. His coat flashes and eyes gleam, and the spells seems to work, so he makes a run for it, trusting his silent footfalls to keep his presence hidden. He bolts, as fast as his legs can take him along the path, barely recognisable. He feels the chill creeping up his spine, gathering at the nape of his neck and hunches his shoulders in an effort to keep the chill at bay, but, of course, it’s no use. He focuses on moving forward, finding his way out, but hears movement up ahead and suddenly Derek is barrelling through the forest making a beeline straight for Stiles.

He blocks the path, forcing Stiles to skid to a stop. Derek huffs at Stiles’ chest, raising his eyebrows expectantly. A silent question ‘Heartbeat, Stiles?’, but Stiles tries to push past Derek, get him to follow. Go anywhere but here. Away from danger. But Derek refuses to move, eyes gleaming red. Stiles whines, high-pitched and panicked, and that seems to get to Derek, because after that he’s following Stiles out of the preserve and into the parking lot. With every step away from the danger, he can feel the cold chill steadily reducing, weaving its way out of his system, until they finally emerge from the woods, and he can’t feel it any longer.

Once he’s regained his breath, Stiles shifts and quickly puts his clothes back on, turning to see a very, very pissed Derek Hale. Derek’s looming above him, so close that Stiles can actually see the individual hairs that blend together to form ‘the glare’ (As Scott and he have become accustomed to calling it) and he can see Derek’s nostrils flare, whipping the air in and out like a pump. Not really a great sign for Stiles’ well-being.

“What were you thinking, going into the middle of nowhere like that?! ALONE!” Derek’s really, really close now. Stiles can feel Derek’s breath dance harshly across his skin. Derek’s eyes are drilling into him, expecting a response.

He thinks about where to start, but his mind’s going a million miles an hour, and all he can think is ‘Scott’s at Allison’s. Shit. Does Derek Know? Does Scott _want_ him to know?’ on a loop. So he stupidly says, to distract Derek and partially himself, “How did you know I was out there?” and it seems to work, because suddenly Derek’s developed his own personal space bubble, and he’s glancing at the ground, eyes anywhere but on Stiles.

“Were you following me?” Derek doesn’t answer. Instead he shifts awkwardly on his feet. “Holy shit. You were.” Stiles’ mind fills in the gaps in a flurry. Derek was keeping an eye on him and Scott, followed him deeper into the preserve and freaked when he couldn’t hear Stiles’ heartbeat anymore. Shit, Stiles must’ve freaked the poor guy out. He probably though he was _dead_. But before Stiles can even ask ‘why?’ Derek’s already halfway to the car, keys in hand. “B-“ But Derek interrupts, shaking his head.

“Let it go, Stiles”

So he does.

* * *

NOTES: 

Want something short 'n sweet to pass the time? check out my new fic, [Soulsong](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4282707). I'd really appreciate it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO there's that. Let me know what you think as usual, Its lovely reading your comments 
> 
>  
> 
> IM OUTIE!


	14. Chapter 14

When Stiles gets back home, dead phone and clothes bundled together in his hand, he still feels a little cold. Actually, If he really thinks about it, he's felt that tell-tale chill running down his spine ever since Derek sped off in his sleek, black Camaro, leaving Stiles alone at the tree line of the preserve. He can't figure out why he's so cold. Why he can't warm back up, no matter what he tries? Why won't his body accept the heat he keeps offering it? He lifts a bony hand to his shoulder. He's not cold to the touch, and his temperature is still relatively normal, so what's the deal? He dumps the clothes on the wooden desk in a messy pile, plugs in his phone and paces. His feet drum a constant rhythm on the floorboards. Once upon a time it would calm his racing nerves, help synchronize his heart, but today, it just doesn't seem to be working. He racks his brain for a logical answer.    
 

Maybe his magic's wearing thin? No, it can't be that. He usually spends this much, if not more, hiding himself and his abilities from the pack. Maybe it's because he just spent the past few hours romping around the woods with two werewolves in the middle of the night? No. he dismisses that idea as well. Although he doesn't usually run with the wolves, he has run a lot longer and further than that before by himself on much colder nights. No. Whatever's making him this cold, has nothing to do with either his magic, or with his fox. No, this has something to do with the Mocker. Only something that unholy, that evil could evoke such a paranormal feeling in both Stiles and his fox.    
 

He continues pacing, but for different reasons now. Now, he paces out of fear. He continues along the length of his bed, snagging his mother's blanket as he curls it around himself snugly, bathing in the comfort both the blanket and the 'human burrito' he's made for himself offers. He burrows further into the blankets, still not feeling warm enough to fall asleep.  

An idea strikes. 

He reverts back into his fox form, for the second time that night. Burrowing underneath the blanket only offers limited support, but it's better than nothing. He's still cold. Maybe not as bad as before, but he can still feel that chill sweeping through his fur, meshing itself deep into his bones. He whimpers as his eyes dart around the room anxiously, examining the shadows ruthlessly as they cast menacing figures and shapes along his bedroom wall. He stares at them for what feels like hours, just begging for the sun to poke its head through his opened window and chase the shadows away. He thinks one moves near his bookcase and he fastens his eyes shut, a 'see no evil, feel no evil' mantra replaying over and over again in his head. He concentrates hard, tuning out the monstrous shadows and reaches deep, deep down into his chest, his heart and into the glowing cacoon of warmth that's pooled there. Isolating a single thread, he wraps his magic around himself tightly, playing it's enough to keep him safe while he sleeps.    
 

-   
 

He's woken up close to two hours later.    
 

There's a large creature hunching in on itself as it crawls, albeit slowly, through his bedroom window. Stiles closes his eyes, feigning sleep, but readies his magic. With the same coil he wrapped so tightly around himself, he snakes it towards the opened window. The tendril slithers its way across the floor, unseen to the dark figure. The man clambours through the window quietly. It's clear that he's done this many times before, maybe when Stiles was not so distressed. When Stiles was sound asleep.     
 

As the man lands his feet silently on the floor, Stiles sweeps his golden tendril out, snaring the figure amongst it's golden length. Unlike Stiles was expecting, the man isn't screaming, or begging for mercy like he should be. Instead, he-no- Derek, is crouching on the floor, looking at Stiles, confused.  

Stiles stares right back. 

Derek growls at the golden, unbreaking thread in his hand as he tries to break it again and again. He wraps a hand on either side, pulling as hard as his werewolf strength will allow. Stiles' magic is much stronger. The golden thread glows brighter, chasing away those chilling shadows from the corner of the room and tightens its hold on Derek, electing a winded noise from the man. "Stiles" he grunts out. 

Stiles shakes himself out of his magic trance, looking at Derek with wide eyes. Then he remembers how Derek got in here. Anger boils hot beneath his skin, and he makes no effort to try to block its heady scent from the werewolf's nose. "What," He grounds out, squeezing the ropes a little "are _you_ doing here?" He gives Derek a pointed look, not bothering to untangle his golden thread until the man has answered his question.  

Derek, has the audacity to look just as pissed. "I was checking on you, Stiles" He matches Stiles' glare easily, before holding the gleaming thread up, eyebrows rising higher as he waits for Stiles to untangle him.  

Stiles isn't done yet. "Why were you checking on me? Did you follow me again!?" Stiles' voice rises higher and higher as he speaks, making the werewolf finch at the octave.  

Derek looks slightly sheepish, breaking eye contact, choosing instead to look at the floorboards. "You smelt distressed. I wanted to see if you're ok." Derek looks up "Especially after tonight." 

Oh. 

Stiles closes his eyes, reaching down into that same golden pool, and pulls on his thread. He gasps at the sensation of having it back with him. At being whole again.  

It's not long before the cold roots itself deep in his bones again, clawing its way inwards as far as it can. He shivers as it settles, eyes still closed.  

He's being shaken. His eyes snap open, pupils flare a warning to his attacker to back the hell off. Once his eyes adjust to the light, he see's it Derek. He looks worried. He's trying to say something.  

"-iles. Stiles" he shakes him again, rougher this time. Stiles shakes his head, trying to clear the grogginess dwelling in his skull. 

"wha-What?" He looks around the room, which is trashed. His clothes and books are scattered all over the floor, some even caught on his bookshelf. He looks to Derek for an answer, confusion pinching his brows together. "What happened?" 

He shakes his head, ignoring Stiles' question. Derek touches his forehead to his gently', whispering a 'thank god' before patting his shoulders roughly, as if checking whether Stiles is hurt or not. He startles when he touches Stiles' neck accidetnly, hand flinching back. He fixes Stiles with a stern look. "Why are you so cold, Stiles?"  

"I don't know. Have been ever since we left the preserve." Stiles brushes Derek's hands off his body lightly. "Derek," he holds the wolf's gaze. "What. Happened."  

Derek turns back towards the room, taking in the mess as if he hadn't noticed it before. "I.. I don't know" Stiles shivers, teeth clacking. He tries to wrap his arms around himself, but it doesn't help. He just can't seem to warm up, no matter what he tries. Great. 

Before he know's it, Derek's sweeping him up in burly arms, blanket wrapped tightly around the both of them. The wolf grunts, pulling them back into the embrace of the bed, and for the first time since the preserve, Stiles feels warm. Not back to normal yet, but ten times better than twenty minutes ago. The wolf runs a hand along Stiles' back in tight circles, trying to create friction to help warm Stiles up quicker. It's very soothing. Like his mother used to do.   

In small increments he drifts off to sleep, sighing a small 'thankyou' into the heat of the werewolf's chest before he welcomes with open arms, the darkness and warmth sleep brings. 

- 

The ground is shaking, rumbling beneath him. He opens his eyes slowly, noting the way whatever he's lying on rises and falls. Right. He and Derek fell asleep together last night. He looks up, only to see Derek reaching out for a phone that isn't his. Stiles is too tired to fight with Derek this early in the morning, so he lets the wolf answer the phone, save for a small spark he may or may not have caused when the wolf's hand wraps itself securely around his phone. 

Derek holds the phone out in front of him, so they both can see. There's two messages from Scott. 

**Scott 9:56:** You know that weird scent thing? I found a ring of black gooey stuff spread all around the house. Allison has no idea what it is.  

**Scott 11:12:** Allison's Grandpa's visiting. You think he could be a hunter? He smells weird. I don't like it.  

* * *

 

  **NOTES**

**Its been a whole 6 months since I last updated, and I don't have a good enough excuse. Please accept my sincerest apologies.**

**See, the thing is, I wanted to delete this work for some time now. But. I know some of you guys are really fond of it. If even just one person likes my work, It deserves some attention. I'm gonna see this one through. Thankyou for being so patient with me. I really appreciate it.**

**Anyway, I know you probably see this all the time, but I'm currently accepting prompts of all shapes and sizes, so send me a message[here](http://fox-pause.tumblr.com/) to have yours written. **

 

**As per usual, If you liked my writing make sure to leave a kudos, or a comment if you REALLY liked it. **

** (づ￣ ³￣)づ*:･ﾟ✧ **

** (love you all) **

** P.S make sure to check out my other works! **

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

Deaton's got a plan. 

Scott, Stiles, Allison, Derek and Isaac are all crowded closely around McCall's tiny, wooden dining table. The tension in the room soars as they all shuffle about awkwardly, knowing their cryptic druid has some malevolent plan shoved up his bleach-white veterinarian coat.  

Stiles glances nervously at Scott, before nodding to Deaton to share the plan with the others. The druid moves forward, gaze clinging to the book he's holding in tender hands.  

"Stiles has told me of your little predicament." he flicks his gaze between Scott and Derek. "I've come up with a plan to lure the Raven Mocker's master out of the woodwork.. so to speak." He flips through the book, to a page with multiple coffee stains and a brown patch that looks remarkably like dried blood. He points to a smudged section of the page, with writing that looks a lot like chicken scratch. "If you could all read this section here, It'll save me having to explain it to everyone." 

The whole group moves forward simultaneously, bumping heads as they eagerly look at the page. Stiles squints, trying to read the words. They blur and collide together on the page, before flaring up, almost as if they’re ablaze.  

He stumbles backwards, mind reeling.    

Deaton looks like he's about to smile. "Oh. yes, of course. I may have forgotten to mention, foxes can't read warded tomes like this." Deaton taps the edge of his nose with a wrinkly finger "best not to look, Stiles." 

Stiles huffs, sends a pointed stare at the man and sits on one of the chairs that'd been deserted earlier in their haste to get to know the plan. He didn't need to read the book anyway. He was the one who suggested something similar ages ago.  

After a few minutes the pack seems satisfied with the plan, only a few confused looks being tossed around. Namely Scott.  

Stiles jerks his head at Scott's arched eyebrow, a look he's  _surely_  stolen from his alpha. "You sure you're ok with this? I know you're not exactly new to this whole powers thing, but it's still dangerous. You could get hurt. Badly." 

Stiles rises to his feet gracelessly. "Scotty, it's fine. If I don't do this, right now, more people are going to get hurt." He gives the pack a leveling stare. "I can’t have that happen. I won't risk anyone else dying when we could've done something to stop it." Everyone but Scott nods their heads in agreeance, determination igniting behind worried eyes.  

Scotts just get more concerned.

Allison nudges Scotts side gently "Stiles'll be fine. He can protect himself" she looks back to Stiles, eyes gleaming mischievously. "Besides, he kept you lot off his trail for ages" The pack growls, eyes flashing briefly at the reminder of Stiles' little 'secret' he tried to hide from the pack.  

Embarrassed, he rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah.. I-uh." He pouts. "Sorry. Again." 

The wolves shake their heads, put-upon sighs filling the room.  

- 

12:54am 

Stiles is waiting in the old folks home, milling about, talking to the folks there every now and again.  

Most of them have long, interesting stories to tell him. Some are about wars Stiles didn’t know exited, while others are wild tales about past lovers and rule breakers. Stiles wants to hear them all, he does, but he has work to do.  

He has people to save.  

making his way to the 'critical' ward, he stops, taking a deep breath. All he can smell is death, grief and sadness. It clogs his nose and distresses his fox. All he wants to do is run back to the nice old people and their wistful ways, not be stuck down here where even the paint stuck to the walls seems miserable. He sucks in another breath, mentally reminding his fox why they're here.  

When he gets to the sickest patient, a grey old man with a only gilmour of life left in his eyes, he stops. Catching his trembling bottom lip between blunt teeth, willing his eyes to stop tearing up, he reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a fistful of powerful red dust.  

Kenneth, the name of the dying man, watches with slightly weary eyes from his spot on the bed as Stiles paces around the room, counting out his steps before placing a small pile of the red dirt on the ground, just between the cracks.  

"I used to do that, too." Stiles stills, casting a glance over his shoulder. Kenneth blinks slowly at him, silent permission to keep going.  

It might've just been Stiles' imagination, but with every pile Stiles places carefully on the tiled floor, Kenneth seems to calm down just a little bit more.  

"It helps to keep the bloody nuns out." Kenneth remarks. Stiles huffs, smirking to himself, before Kenneth continues. "They don’t like the color, don't like getting their hands dirty. Reminds them of blood." Kenneth nods, agreeing with himself, then quietly Stiles hears "And the Leprechauns too."  

Once Stiles is finished with the placement of the dust, he places himself in the center of the room, ignoring Kenneth's snide remarks about Lepers, the nurses and whatever else he comes up with.  

Instead, he focuses his senses inside. He focuses on redirecting his magic back  _inside_  his body, almost like a calling card to all those who dare to harm what he hold dear to his heart. Namely, the entirety of Beacon Hills.  

The last thing he hears is a startled 'I knew it' from Kenneth, before he's surrounded in a black, ominous glow -one that's startlingly similar to the color of his veined hands- and is floating above the old man.  

He feels a slice of magic shoot out his neck, racing at light speed into its target, knocking it roughly to the ground. Only for a few seconds does the magic work like it's supposed to. He see's the Raven mocker cage, where it's kept. Its somewhere dark, somewhere the light can’t mar its ugly features. He sees a flash of blinds, and through them, the preserve.  

With a wave of regret, he realizes just where the raven mocker is. Somewhere a little too familiar.

* * *

 

** NOTES **

**WHATTT!? Another** **cliffhanger? no way?**

**I sure you smartypants can work it out. On a side note, this story is actually getting interesting, huh.**

**Anyway, If you liked my writing make sure to leave a kudos, or a comment if you REALLY liked it. (make sure to let me know if writing about cars was too weird for you guys)**

**Talk to me on[Tumblr](http://fox-pause.tumblr.com/ask)!**

**(づ￣ ³￣)づ*:･ﾟ✧**

**(P.S I love you guys)**

 


	16. I'm so sorry guys

Ok, so I'm sorry to have to do this, but I'm putting this work in hiatus for a short while. Its not just that I hate this work (and I really, really do), its that with all the prompts I'm taking and UNI starting up as of Monday, writing 1-2k each week for this fic is just simply too much for my little brain to handle. 

But don't fret. Once I've started posting again for this work, I'll delete this chapter and it'll be like this little rough patch never happened. poof! all better.

If you're worried I'm going to stop writing for this fandom, don't worry. I'm still writing, so if you're keen to read more of my style make sure to check out my other works. 

 

Love from Fox_Pause. (and I really do mean that)


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